


all these city lights

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Off-screen Character Death, Trauma, not sure if this counts as ptsd so i won't tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: AU.His arrival to the townhouse is...uneventful, to say the least.After an unexpected and untimely death, Jack finds himself in the care of his late brother's estranged friend while he finishes college. Damien proves to be little more than a ghost in his life, rarely home and rarely looking at him, and drowned in the city lights, he feels lost. But when he forces his way into Damien's life a little more, Jack begins to soften towards him. But with a web of secrets looming overhead, Jack finds that Damien had more to do with his brother than he's ready to know.
Relationships: Antisepticeye & Jacksepticeye, Darkiplier/Sean McLoughlin, darkiplier/jacksepticeye
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	all these city lights

**Author's Note:**

> It's so...strange, having this finally be done.
> 
> I started work on this about a year or so before I met my boyfriend, I think, and we're now coming up on two years since getting together. I don't have access to the original file on the original computer it was written on, so I can't be sure of it's actual start date, but lord, this thing is _old_. I've had it for ages, just sitting here, collecting dust, about 95% finished, and somehow, I just. Managed to finish it today. Wrote the last 500 or so words and it's here now. Wild.
> 
> I'm not like, actually sure how many people still follow my writing? I know it's been like, a hot fuckin minute since I did anything. But life's gotten in the way, so has the pandemic, and generally I just have like no time for writing whatsoever. But every now and again I have bursts of energy and I crank some shit out and do my best to make something out of it, so.
> 
> I'm not particularly pleased with the ending of this story--it probably has something to do with the large gap in time between writing the last chunk and then writing the actual ending chunk--a time gap of about, two years I'd say. My writing style evolves and changes over time, I'm a lot more emotional and whimsical about shit so it kind of transfers over. But I'm glad to see that these two have their conclusion.
> 
> I love Dark/Jack, I've really missed these idiots. I don't really follow Jacksepticeye anymore but I love the character I've built of him--and I'd like to continue using him as a _character_ , in my own version, for future projects if I'm able to. I still have a lot of work on _to desecrate the stars_ that I'd love to get back to someday, and I will, and I'll try, but it might be a while. 
> 
> Anyway. I hope you can enjoy this. Sorry I've been absent so long, and hope that this nice long shot will be worth it while I try and work on other stuff and sort my goddamn shit out in this crazy ass world we're living in right now.
> 
> There's a song mentioned somewhere in the fic, and it's "Feels Right" by Roosevelt. A bit of a vibe for this story, though I didn't find it until this year. It was edited in after I had to change the old song out for personal reasons.

"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." - Havelock Ellis

~~

His arrival to the townhouse is...uneventful, to say the least.

With nothing but a shoulder bag and a single suitcase, Jack stares at the modest home—it's not a mansion by any means, but it's...roomy. Larger than any place he's ever lived in. Or maybe it always felt smaller because two people lived inside. 

It's dusk out, the sun having just dunked its head below the horizon. There's still a warmth in the air despite the month bleeding into October. It should be cold by now, but it's normal, he supposes, for the grip of summer to linger far longer than its welcome. Seasons—and time—tend not to make sense in his heart, anyway. 

Sucking in a long, sobering breath, Jack grips the handle on his suitcase tight, marching up to the front door of the house. Like something out of a period drama, there's an old fashion knocker, an ornate doorknob, and a doorbell slightly to the right. Mustering up the courage, Jack presses down on the button, letting it ring for a brief period, before stopping. He hears the echo inside of the house.

No answer.

Jack sighs. 

Putting his hand on the doorknob, it turns without complaint. The door creaks open, a haunting, resonating sound. The house is dark inside, the flicker of light coming from another room, and Jack takes a risk, stepping inside. 

He shuts the door behind him. Nothing greets him, the sound of his own breathing audible—that's about it. He can hear a clock ticking somewhere in the distance, faint and dull, so he doesn't pay it much mind. Slinging his bag off his shoulder, he drops his things off by the door, pulling off his shoes. As quiet as he can, he follows the fading glow towards what he presumes is the kitchen.

White light. Jack squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes, briefly. A cold, black and white décor greet him, an island in the middle of the kitchen. It doesn't seem to be used much, if at all—or perhaps it's just immaculately clean. In the center of the island is a yellow note. 

He steps forward to inspect it.

_Hello Seán,_

_I'm pleased to see that you've let yourself in. Make yourself at home. I apologize for being unable to greet you upon your arrival—I know you must be tired. My work requires me to be out late, and while normally I would have had at least time to chat with you, pressing matters came up. Nevertheless, I'm sure you're capable of taking care of yourself for the time being._

_Some notes—your room will be upstairs, second door to the left. There is a connecting bathroom that is yours, should you wish to shower after your long flight. The bed hasn't been touched since last I've had guests, which has been well over a few months, so the sheets may be dusty. Give them a good shake before laying down. Feel free to fill the dresser and decorate as you see fit. The room is yours._

_Television is both downstairs and in your room. I hardly use them, but perhaps you might. It works as standard—nothing special to it. I've also included the wireless password for your cellphone or laptop, should you need it._

_Help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. I won't be home until long after you've gone to bed, so don't worry about waiting up on me._

_Rest up, and I will speak with you tomorrow,_

_DD_

The initials are in a beautiful script.

Damien Doom. The man of the hour, the owner of this house, and one of his late brother's only friends, however estranged. 

Anti. God, it still hurts to think of him. How can his only fucking brother be gone? 

Even though he could be such a shit, could be such a terrible, awful human, Anti always looks out for him. Even now. He knew when he left that Jack wouldn't have anybody, especially now, with his degree looming over his head, debts out the dickens. 

So he set him up with an old friend. 

A week after Anti's funeral, he'd received a letter in similar script in the mail. Gave him an address and a ticket, writing that upon Anti's request, he'll be coming to live with him. Jack, with no way to keep their shared apartment, had no choice but to agree, shoving everything he could of Anti into two bags before boarding the plane the next morning. 

Now he's here, unsure of his place. 

A rumble in his stomach alerts him to his more basic needs. Setting the note back down, Jack begins to comb the kitchen for something consumable. He hasn't the stomach for a full blown meal, and can't honestly be bothered to cook, especially in a kitchen that he isn't familiar with.

Making a meal for one instead of two.

There's a lone box of crackers that he finds in the cupboard, and after stuffing about six into his mouth, drinking some water straight from the tap, he crawls back up the neatly carpeted stairs. Jack reaches the landing before realizing he doesn't have...any of his things. 

Trouncing back down, he grabs his single bag and suitcase, dragging them both up the stairs.

Not bothering to unpack, Jack closes the door, flickering on the blinding, white light for a moment as he pulls out his few...possessions. Namely, the stuffed turtle Anti had given him some years back. It looks a little worse for wear these days, but still in a good enough condition. He sets it on the bed, next to his pillow. 

The photo frame goes face down on the dresser.

Pulling out his pajama pants, he withdraws a t-shirt of his own—he'd packed a couple of Anti's, the ones that weren't a goddamn rag, but he can't bring himself to try and wear them yet. The wound is still...a little too fresh. Despite Anti being almost a decade older, they've always been around the same build, making it easy to steal his clothes.

In a couple years, he'll have entirely his own clothes, nothing left. 

Fuck. 

He changes quickly, without thinking, before crawling into the bed. He swears he can feel the dust rise around him, but can't be bothered to get up and shake it out, as Damien had told him. 

Closing his eyes, he imagines that he's at home in his own bed, but Jack knows he isn't, and won't ever be again. 

~~

It's early—his body knows that much, when he hears a creak in his room. His first thought is to rouse, to address the new guest, but the fatigue clawing at him doesn't seem to waver. Jack waits a bit before opening his eyes, peering up. 

Blearily, he makes out the figure, strong lines and dark hair. When Jack's vision clears, he gets the view of a rolled up dress shirt, crisp and white, a popped collar, still somehow tucked neatly into slacks. Pale skin, the light casting the figure in an almost grey hue. 

Jack says nothing. The photo on the dresser is tilted up, in the stranger's hand. 

“You and he look so much alike,” it's a man's voice, certainly, “hard to believe that you're so far apart in age.” 

Finally, the man turns to him, and Jack can only assume this is Damien. A strong nose and jaw, neatly trimmed stubble, piercing, dark eyes. 

Handsome. Like someone off a magazine cover. 

No smile. More pondering. “This is...a lovely photo. He looks different, when he's with you.” 

Damien sets it back down on the dresser, leaving it face up. He crosses his arms behind his back. “I trust you slept well?”

Jack nods. Damien nods in return. “Then allow me to introduce myself properly. Damien Doom. Pleasure to meet you, Seán.” 

He extends out a hand, the introduction stiff, and stuffy. Jack awkwardly reaches his hand back, Damien shaking it. His hands grate against his, callouses nicking at his skin. But it's gone after a moment. 

“I mostly keep to myself, so you needn't worry about me hovering,” Damien tells him. “I work at nights, primarily, but I often have business to do during the day. I'll leave you my cellphone number in case you need to contact me. Keep up with your studies. If you should need a tutor, let me know.”

Another mute nod. Damien goes on, “If you should like to have guests over, just let me know beforehand. You don't strike me as the party type, but if you would like to host one, again, just let me know prior. You're not a child, so I have no interest in setting a curfew. If you will be staying overnight somewhere, however, I do ask that you, again, just inform me of it, so I know that something grievous hasn't occurred.” 

Jack offers him a half-hearted smile in agreeance. “What's mine is yours, Seán. Don't walk like a stranger in this house. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Any questions?”

This feels like such a business transaction. Jack swallows the lingering bitterness in his throat. “One.”

Silence. He sighs, “Um. I—my name...” 

“Do you have a set of pronouns you'd like me to use instead?”

“No!” Jack covers his face. “I'm! No. I'm good. Um. I just prefer Jack. Over Seán. That's all.”

Damien pauses, before murmuring, “Jack. Very well. I'll keep that in mind. If you don't mind then, Jack, I've some business to attend to in my room, starting with paperwork and ending with some well-due rest, most likely. Just knock if you need anything.”

And then he's gone. 

~~

As it turns out, that is the absolute most Damien ever talks to him in the first three weeks of his arrival.

Every other baseline communication is through sticky notes and vague gestures when they cross paths in the hallway. Jack has a hell of a time adjusting to an entirely new lifestyle—an even harder time jumping headfirst into classes from a new college campus, one drastically far away from home. He's primarily online for now, but in coming semesters he'll probably have to visit the campus. 

Yikes. 

It's always weird, being on campus anyway. He's a lot older than he should be, as far as undergrad students go. The norm is early twenties, and while Jack's only pushing twenty-five, it's still a little awkward to be almost four years older than most students. He should be a graduate, if anything, but he's still working on that undergrad like his life depends on it.

He _had_ been on track, originally. Right out of high school, on scholarship, the whole nine yards. But financial problems had come up, Anti had lost his job, and Jack had dropped out to pick up some work to keep the apartment they'd shared. Things had smoothed over time, and Anti had put him right back in school, but that had only been...a whole semester before he...

Life fucking sucks. 

One morning, as per usual, Jack wakes to a sticky note on the kitchen table. Texting is reserved for when Damien absolutely needs to get a hold of him, which has been...not at all. The same goes likewise. Jack has the contact awkwardly in his phone, but nothing to show for it so far, therefore creating a barrier he hadn't really wanted to erect. 

_Jack--_

_I've left some cash on the table for you. I've noticed that your clothing is rather...inadequate for someone such as yourself. Please use these funds to buy yourself something nice, and comfortable. Preferably more than t-shirts and ratty jeans, but I suppose I won't argue much on that front._

_Anything left over, feel free to purchase food that you like or stow it away. No need to return it to me._

_Additionally, I've left the spare key to the house. Please place it onto your keys. I would hate for you to be locked out._

_Yours,_

_DD_

Jack slides the note away and sees a handful of crisp, clean bills laying on the table. He picks it up, thumbing through it, and feels his heart seize in his chest. 

He's not sure he's ever held this much money in his hands before. He and Anti have never been...well off, and even when Ma and Da were still alive, they weren't...overly wealthy. 

“You want me to keep this?” Jack says aloud, to no one in particular, definitely not expecting an answer. He's half tempted to leave some of it on the table, because about half of it would and could buy him everything he could ever need _and_ more, but...

Jack fishes around in his pocket, withdrawing his wallet. He slips the bills inside, letting out a low sigh, before stuffing it back in. Swiping the key from the table, he holds it as he heads out.

Grabbing his shoes from the front door, he slips them on, sliding the new key onto his sparse key chain as he meanders down the street. 

There's probably something if he walks, right? 

~~

There's definitely something if he walks. 

Too much to think about.

Downtown is a maze of shops and street corners of food—restaurant smells fill the air, the murmur of voices evident. He hasn't been in a city this crowded in some time, far too used to the quietness of the countryside. The loudest it ever got was a high school cafeteria. 

It feels...wrong, the money weighing heavy in his pocket. Jack has an inexplicable feeling that he just...shouldn't be out here, spending someone else's money like he's paying them off in favors. But he's sure that if he _doesn't_ buy anything, Damien will probably buy him something anyway. He seems the sort to just let Jack wake up to sixteen different bags covering his bedroom floor. 

So he ducks in and out of various clothing shops, some preppy stores, some more contemporary, some like something straight out of an emo movie. It's funny, how about five years ago that was _his thing_ , to buy edgy, blingy things like that. After a while, it had become both too expensive a habit and too out of his taste range. 

Jack comes out of fifteen stores with exactly...two shirts. A baseball tee with some pretty words from what he presumes to be a band, and a soft grey button-up that he has no intention of using for anything formal or nice. He's still got a metric fuck-ton of the money Damien had left him, burning a hole in his pocket. He thinks that he should just stow it away for emergencies, because that's all he's ever done with a lump sum of money—tuck it away for when he or Anti needed it. 

Later, he has a new pair of black skinny jeans, and a bracelet that he probably won't ever wear. Only a simple paracord with neon green and blue ribbing. He'd simply liked the way it looked, and justified it by that inconsequential means, as though affirming to himself that he had, in fact, spent the money the way he should've.

Still, with over _half_ of it left, Jack drops by the grocery store. 

It's been a long time since he didn't have to scrutinize every price down to the last cent, a handful of coupons lining his wallet. He and Anti were never _poor_ in that sense, but it made life easier when Jack obsessively memorized their financial situation. They always knew what they could have and what they couldn't. So being here, now, not having to worry about any of that just...feels weird. 

He grabs snacks and drinks, spices and pasta and bread, vegetables and fruit, everything that he hadn't really seen in Damien's house, or that he could use. What feels like stocking the kitchen takes up a good chunk of that cash, but at least that feels legitimate. Like he should be spending the money on that. 

Jack makes the trip home with a heavy load but more comfortable than when he'd headed out. 

~~

That evening, Jack sets his phone on the counter and cranks up the volume as loud as it will go, his playlist shuffling from various metal bands to soft-core tunes, to soundtracks from games he hasn't played in years. He spends the night cooking dinner for himself, the kitchen igniting with a warmth it perhaps hasn't seen...ever. The pots and pans feel brand new, the stove looks like it's been turned on twice since its purchase. 

Warmth fills the kitchen as he dances around, shaking spices into the finishing touches of the Chicken Florentine. He hasn't made this since Anti's last birthday. He always really liked it. 

Once dinner is done, Jack fixes himself a plate and settles down to eat, pulling up YouTube to watch some shitty Vine compilations. It's nice, having put real, solid food into his stomach, food that isn't takeout or from a restaurant, just simply...his. 

Makes him feel alive again, somehow. 

There's still so much left over, though. Jack surveys the still full pan of food, and can't bring himself to throw it away. It's wasteful, and besides...

Jack spends about five minutes rummaging through the cabinets for containers, before shoving the leftovers into two of them. He sets it in the fridge, leaning his head against the sleek, cool exterior before turning around at the dirty kitchen. 

Dirty dishes don't clean themselves, regrettably. 

It takes...much too long to clean everything. Mostly because Jack will wash one dish, and then let the warm, almost hot water pour over his hands, searing his skin, before snapping himself back to reality. At the funeral, an old friend had recommended he get therapy for the weeks after Anti's death. 

_When two people are that close, it's like a part of you gets ripped away when they leave. Talking about it might help for redoing that part of you._

But no. Anti taught him to be strong, and goddamn it, Jack doesn't need anyone to teach him how to survive.

Once the kitchen is clean, Jack roots around the house for the sticky note pad and pen that Damien has been using. On the now clean table, he leaves a note in his shitty, scrawled handwriting. 

_Hi Damien,_

_I made dinner for myself and I'm not used to making dinner for one. So I have the leftovers in the fridge. I probably won't eat it, so if you're hungry when you get back....help yourself. It's probably not great, but... ~~Anti and I~~_

He scribbles it out, grinding his teeth. Jack hesitates over the next few words. 

_...but I think that anything's good if you're hungry enough._

_Thanks for the money. Please don't feel like you have to pay for everything for me. I'm working on getting a job, a couple of interviews lined up at the college._

_-Jack_

He ends it awkward and stiff, but that's par for the course, these days. 

~~

The food isn't there when he wakes up.

Jack rolls out of bed around noon. He checks in to his online classes, gets a gauge for what this week's assignments are, makes a plan on how to get it done by the deadline. So far, he's kept on top of his work, though as the semester progresses, he's not sure how well that'll fly. 

But when he checks the fridge, the containers are absent, and in the sink are the dishes in question, unwashed but certainly cleared out. There's a note on the fridge. 

_Jack--_

_The food was much appreciated when I arrived home this morning. I can't remember the last time I actually had food waiting for me in this house. Thank you very much._

_It's worth mentioning that while I admire your ambition, I would much prefer it if you did not seek out employment. Not because I don't believe you to be capable of handling work and school, but because I think it's best if you hold off on a job until you've earned your degree. From what I've heard, you've had to put it off for long enough._

_I have no qualms about providing for you during this time. It is not out of obligation to your brother, nor is it my own obligation as your host. Rather, consider this a...desire, of sorts. However strange that may be. I would like to take care of you._

_If you should like to pay me back in the future, I will accept that. I know charity does not run in your family. But we can discuss that when you graduate. For now, grant me this favor._

_Yours,_

_DD_

Jack lets out a low sigh. He's still got a fraction of the cash Damien left him, sitting on his dresser upstairs, in plain view, almost like he's anticipating getting robbed. Like he almost wants to be robbed. 

Would make things a lot less awkward. 

The next few weeks go over without much more to it. Jack goes out, buys food, makes dinner, and leaves the leftovers for Damien. Damien leaves him a note in the morning, albeit they get shorter as times goes on. Less to say, settling into a routine of what can be described as mildly comfortable. It's like living on his own except he's not handing money over for bills. 

He's not sure he's seen Damien since that first initial meeting. He can't tell if that's good or bad. 

But this is home now, and Jack, however frustrated he may be, has to live with that. Attempting to set up a life again, he reaches out to some old friends from his last university, before he'd had to drop out. It's been ages since he talked to Robin and Felix anyhow. 

_[Text from: Robin—now] Hey you're still in the Raspy Hill area right?_

It's like six in the evening when the text rolls in. Jack picks up his phone, quickly typing back.

_[Text to: Robin] Yeah why?_

The response takes a couple of seconds coming back. 

_[Text from: Robin] I'm actually visiting the area in a few days. Got a friend down there who's in film school. We should all hang out? His name's Ethan, I think you'll like him_

What's he got to lose? These days he spends so much of his time at home, watching YouTube and television and mustering up the energy to go buy a membership for the gym down the road. He's always been sort of a health nut anyway, but had fallen out of it for a while when he and Anti had fallen into financial need. Now's a good time as any to pick it back up.

_[Text to: Robin] Yeah sure man that sounds great, lmk when you come in. You can crash here. Damien doesn't mind. Not really here anyway_

_[Text from: Robin] Cool, details soon_

Soon. Everything is always soon.

_~~_

Ethan is lovely. 

He's got so much...life to him. They spend a lot of time at the house, Robin having gotten the clear from Damien that it was okay to have a friend over. The text conversation had been brief, as always.

_[Text to: Damien] Do you mind if a friend from back east stays over for a few days?_

_[Text from: Damien] Not at all. Enjoy your time together. Try and clean up after yourselves._

That had been that.

So now he's sitting in the living room, the most life that's been in this place since he moved in. It's so nice to be around people that exhibit joy and happiness, rather than...nothing. It's weird hearing the house filled with laughter rather than a ringing, dull silence.

“We should go to a club,” Ethan announces, clapping his hands. “Yeah?”

“I've never been to one,” Jack tells him, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, already knowing where this is going. Robin's got that gleam in his eye. “Don't really want--”

“Going to a club,” Robin agrees. “Any good ones in the area?”

Ethan looks thoughtful for a moment. “There's Crooked Edge downtown. Heard good things about it, _real_ good things. Good music, good alcohol, good atmosphere. Very strict on ID checking, but we're all over twenty-one.”

“Barely,” Robin snickers, nudging him gently. Ethan swats at him. “But yeah, that sounds good. Jack? You in?”

Loud music, sweaty bodies, booze and strippers. Doesn't sound like a good night in the least.

“Yeah,” Jack says, rising to his feet. “Why the fuck not?”

~~

Crooked Edge isn't so bad. 

It's one of two night clubs he's ever been in, and out of the two, it's probably the most clean and the most polished. Rich tiled floor with neon lights strung about, the grandeur of the place certainly not lost on him. Ornate fixtures around the wide expanse show Jack that no cost has been spared as far as upkeep, and it seems to be in relatively booming business. 

Crowded. The dance floor vibrates with life, melodies and harmonics that Jack knows well from his radio listening days. The DJ's face is hidden behind a mask, creating an eerie sense of allure, and yeah, maybe this isn't so bad. 

Ethan and Robin are tickled. 

“It's been ages since I've been in a nightclub,” Robin admits, as they approach the bar. “Shit. Last one was before I moved east.” 

“Didn't we go to one back in Palmdale, summer before senior year?” Jack asks, the bartender with beautiful eyes sliding a drink to him. Jack offers him a smile. “You know, the really shady one?”

Robin snaps his fingers. “Yeah, yeah. That's right. I blocked that one out a bit.”

“This is my first one,” Ethan laughs, already sucking down whatever concoction he'd ordered. “So far? Not disappointed.”

They chat like this for a good bit, the bartender occasionally sending him flirty little winks. Jack's only mildly uncomfortable with it. Guy's cute, but coming off a little strong, and it's been ages since Jack's been with anyone. Dating seems...low on his list of priorities. 

Robin and Ethan attempt to drag him off dancing, but Jack favors his beer bottle a little bit more, arguing that he needs just a bit more courage before white boy dancing out in public. They agree, and he watches them make fools of themselves in the crowd, and he laughs, rich and low, in the effervescent light.

He's halfway through another swig when a hand claps down on his shoulder. 

“Ariel McLoughlin,” a sharp, devastating rumble. “Shit. They told me you were dead.”

Jack whips around on him. It's a dark haired man, pale skin, tattoos adorning his skin, most notably a sleeve up the arm that touched him. He's looking at him like he's seen a ghost, but Jack's the one with the frozen over heart.

“Who the hell are you,” Jack whispers, and he's not a hundred percent sure the man hears him. “My brother is dead.” 

“Your brother?” The man's lips twist, confused. “Anti, I—oh, fuck. Oh shit. You're—oh _fuck_.”

Without warning, he grabs him by the forearm, yanking him out of the chair. Jack yelps, the grip on him tight as he pulls him around the bar. Jack is by no means a weak man, even after not having worked out for some time, but the stumble brings him off balance. He yanks back against the stranger, yelping, “What the fuck! Who the _fuck_ are you?”

Jack booms with as much voice as he can get, but no one around him pays any mind. If anything, some eyes stray away, as though purposefully not hearing him, and Jack's teeth itch with the need to slap some sense into any one of them. “How do you know my brother! Fuck! Let go of me!”

He locks his heels to the ground, tensing up, hopefully to at least stall the process until Robin and Ethan can come to his aid. With a wistful glance over his shoulder, his two companions are nowhere in sight. Of course. Just when he needs them. 

The music fades out to a low droll as the man pulls him towards a backroom, and Jack fears the worst. This is how the beginning of every horror movie begins, every date rape informative, every murder mystery. It drives him wild, how no one is fucking paying any bit of attention when Jack is _wailing_ that he doesn't know this man, that he's being taken against his will, and how the _hell_ is someone's grip this strong? Jack pries at his fingers, digging his nails into the hard skin, catching a glance over the words above the door reading _office_ before the door's being thrown open. 

“Dark,” the man drawls out, manhandling Jack inside. “Dark.” 

A low voice, cold and sharp, “Nathan. I distinctly recall telling you not to disturb me.” 

Jack's heart seizes at the sound of that voice as the man, Nathan, answers, “Yeah, well, you're gonna thank me in a minute.”

And who else but Damien Doom looks up from his papers, that acute gaze fixing on him for a moment, his mouth twisting from a scowl to one of shock. 

The feeling is mutual. 

Damien clears his throat, shuffling whatever he was working on into order. Slowly, he rises to his feet, his tall form accentuated, in that same, business formal attire that Jack had first met him in. “Indeed. Thank you, Nathan. Go.” 

Nathan flashes two fingers, presumably in a gesture of agreeance, and the door shuts behind him. Jack's heart roars in his ears as the tension fills the room, suffocating and damp. Damien says nothing for a long moment. 

Then, “Jack.” 

Jack, with no mirth whatsoever, “...Dark?” 

Damien? Dark? Him? Waves his hand. “A...business nickname. I had a friend that I used to be...joined at the hip with. We were quite inseparable as children. His name was Mark. After a time, I our names...got mixed together. They called me Dark as a jest, and it always stuck.” 

Jack nods, awkward and slow. “Cool.”

The air in the room is so thick Jack could hack through it with a chainsaw, if he owned one. 

“Jack,” Damien—Dark? Dark? Should he call him Dark?--murmurs, his voice dropping to that halted, almost chastising pitch. “What _are_ you doing here?”

“I'm here with some friends,” Jack says, looking down at the pretty, tiled floor. It's clean like no one's been back here in a long time. “We were drinking and then your _friend_ came and asked me how the hell I was still alive.” 

Damien pinches the bridge of his nose. “He's not...a friend. He's an business associate of mine. I'm sorry he lacks a certain...tact when handling people. I apologize for the way he dragged you in here.” 

Jack presses his lips into a thin line. “Anyway, I. My friends are probably looking for me. Can I go back? I didn't mean to...disturb you. Didn't know you worked here.”

“I own it,” Damien tells him coolly, half proud, half bitter. “And no. This isn't the place for you. Come. I'm taking you home.”

“What?” Jack barks, opening his arms with a scowl. “Are you serious? Dude!” 

Damien holds up a hand, brooking no room for argument. “No. No. We're not having this argument here. This place is not the atmosphere I want you to be in. We're going home, and you can yell at me all you want there, but for now, Jack, please. Come with me.”

He's already grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his office chair, and Jack has about five seconds to be explosively angry before it fizzles out. He runs his hands through his hair, fuming quietly as the jingle of keys sober him, and Damien's huddling him out of the office and into the hall.

“There's a back exit where my car is parked,” Damien mumbles, hand on his shoulder. “Let's go.”

The car ride back is cripplingly quiet. Jack runs his fingers over the smooth leather interior, the dim digital lights of the Audi casting everything in a glow. It's easily the most...expensive thing he's ever been within a ten foot radius of, but he supposes Night Club Owning Damien can afford it. 

He's never been so disappointed to see the house in his life, though.

Once the door opens, Jack hurls his shoes across the room. Damien makes no comment, closing the door gently behind him. 

Silence. 

And then Jack breaks. 

“You know what?” he starts, voice thrashed, and he hasn't even begun. “Just—just _fuck_ you, Damien.”

“Excuse me?”

Jack balls his fingers into fists, a searing heat coiling at the base of his spine, working its way up. He turns to the man, taking in his ghostly silhouette, poised, annoyed. Like he has _anything_ to be annoyed about.

“Just fuck you, Damien,” Jack says, putting his hands over his eyes. “Fuck you, and fuck this house. Fuck these shitty, grey walls, fuck these shelves of books. Fuck every dusty electronic in this house. Fuck _you_ , Damien! Fuck you for bringing me here, and _fuck_ you for pretending like it's fine!”

Damien's expression is cloudy in the little light. “Enough, Jack.” 

“No, you said I could fucking yell when I got here,” Jack waves his arms out. “So here I am! I hate this fucking house! I'm so _fucking_ alone here! I have never been so fucking alone in my life! You can say whatever the hell you want about my brother, but goddamn it, he was _good to me_ . When my parents died, Anti stepped in to take care of me, even if he didn't want to. When we fell on hard times, and I had to drop out of college, he felt so fucking terrible that he drowned himself in work until he was promoted so I could go back. He made _sure_ I went back so I didn't have to fuck myself up trying to scrounge and scrape by. You can say whatever the hell you want about my brother, but he _always_ put me first, and always did right by me!”

The other makes no move to speak. Jack's chest hurts. “He wasn't a good man. I know that. I know Anti was probably one of the worst fucking people in the world. I know Anti did awful things, unspeakable things, things that he'd never tell me about. But he—even then I—fuck, Damien, he was all I had. He was all I had left in this world, and now he's gone and I—I don't know what to do with myself! I live in this stupid house where I feel like the silence is suffocating me. I make meals for two when there's only one of me! Even when Anti was dead tired from work he always made sure to talk to me, because he knew I was lonely by myself. When I had nightmares and woke him up, I knew he was so exhausted from only getting an hour of sleep, but he'd stay with me until I fell back asleep. But you?”

He juts a finger hard at the other man. “I've seen you _once_ since I moved in. You're gone when I wake up and gone when I go to bed. The only indication that you've even fucking existed is those stupid notes you leave me, and sometimes I wonder if I made you up! The only reason I know I haven't is because I don't pay the bills, and even if I tried, I couldn't afford it! How is it that two people live in this house and I am writhing in this gnawing anxiety that this world has left me for dead?”

Damien grabs his wrist. “Jack--”

“I see him every night,” and there they are, the hot, prickling tears. They don't spill, Jack won't let them, but _god,_ they're there. “I see him, Damien. I see him getting shot, I watch the bullets hit his heart. I see him choking on his own blood, the life leaving his eyes. And it haunts me, because he was _alone_. He was alone, and Damien I—I would give anything to have been there, just so he knew, just so he would never feel like how I feel now!” 

The hand holding him loosens, before slowly releasing. Jack sucks in a sobering breath. He wipes at his eyes, swallowing, before clearing his throat. 

“I hate this house,” he says simply, bitterly. “I hate these city lights—the white lights all around here. It's like being in a doctor's office, except I'm never getting better and I'm never checking out. You have no idea what that's like, do you?” 

No answer. He isn't expecting one. Jack lets out a little laugh, harsh and cold. “I'm going to bed, I guess. I have homework to do in the morning.” 

With nothing left in him, Jack walks up the stairs to his room, and shuts the door, soft, and resigned. 

~~

The morning comes brutal and fast, but not wholly unwelcome. Mostly because the sunlight streams through his window, casting the room in an ethereal glow, and there's a smell coming from downstairs that decidedly smells like breakfast, and...home.

Jack pulls himself out of bed slowly, brushing off the dust of last night, still in the clothes he went out to the club in. His tee is wrinkled and his jeans stick to his skin, indentations from the denim imprinted. He swipes his phone from the nightstand, a flurry of text messages lighting up, mostly from Robin and then an unknown number, both saying, _Jack are you good? Jack? Jack? Jack?_

Unlocking the phone, Jack taps a quick message back. _Everything's fine. Talk soon. Don't call the cops._

Only moments later, the thumbs up emoji chimes back to him, and he feels the worry from Robin in that message, but he knows not to press. Jack will tell him when he's ready, and he really will. 

He drags himself over to the dresser and pulls out fresh, clean clothes, meandering into the bathroom to shower off the cheap cologne and booze and sweat from last night. He stands under the spray for a while, letting the hot water sober him a bit, despite the fact that he isn't drunk, before he gets out and dries himself off. 

Once he's dressed, Jack investigates the smell coming from downstairs with careful, uncertain feet. The blinding white light in the living room absent, sunlight filtering in, it looks more...homely than it ever has. When he peers into the kitchen, his heart leaps in his chest because...

There's another person. 

He stares for a long moment at Damien, alive and in the flesh, moving about as though he owns the place. Well, he does, technically, but Jack's never seen him do anything of the sort. He's never once seen him live in this house since he moved in. 

Damien turns to him, his expression guarded, yet soft. “Good morning, Jack.”

Finding himself at a loss for words, Jack murmurs back, “Um. Yeah. Good...morning?”

He really hadn't expected Damien to be here. Memories from last night flush into his mind, his explosive temper, his bitterness and resentment and unbridled anguish. Jack really had expected Damien to simply pretend it didn't happen and continue with the way their lives had been going. He seems the sort to do that. 

Damien waves a hand dismissively at whatever he's making. “I'm...making breakfast.”

“I see that.”

Oh, god. Jack much preferred waking up alone than this awkwardness. He really considers just turning around and going back to bed, because this has got to be a dream. 

“Jack, I...” Damien starts, turning off the stove eye. He takes what Jack presumes to be bacon, from the smell, off of it. “I'm not...used to this. It's been...a very long time since I lived with anyone.”

Jack shrugs. “It's...cool. Don't even mention it.” 

There's a pregnant pause. “We should probably talk about your...outburst.”

“That's all it took for you to kick me out?” Jack jokes, attempting to lighten the atmosphere, but from the way Damien's shoulders stiffen, it wasn't a good one. “I was kidding.”

“I'm happy you did,” Damien murmurs, leaning against the counter. He looks so frightening, and brooding, like a business deal gone south. Yet Jack finds himself surprisingly calm. “I'm sorry I have neglected to care for you in a manner you were used to.”

He sounds so formal, so...appropriate. It's amusing, really. Jack can't help but smile. “I was just lonely, dude. It's fine. Nothing I haven't dealt with before, nothing I won't deal with again.”

“I would like to...be more present in your life,” Damien says, like the words are too big for his mouth. “As you now know, Crooked Edge is my establishment, so it will be difficult to distance myself from it entirely. But...perhaps, in the mornings, we could...” 

Damien trails off, uncertain still. It's strange to see a man who oozes confidence be so...demure. Like he's afraid that Jack's just going to go back to bed or pretend this conversation didn't happen entirely. 

Jack rubs at his neck awkwardly. “Um. Yeah. Sure? I. Don't. Get out of bed at a decent hour, though. I stay up pretty late so I like to sleep in. But I guess, if you're still around, whenever I roll out? Like don't...disrupt your life or anything just because you feel like you have to keep me company. I have friends for that.”

The other offers him a small smile, almost bitter, but not quite. “I will be around. My life is...dull outside of work. So, should you...like for me to be around...”

Never in his life has he ever had anyone ask him if he wants company. 

“Yeah,” Jack finds himself saying, before he can really think about it. “I'm cool with that. One condition.” 

Damien offers no reply, but raises a brow. 

“I don't want to call you Damien,” Jack murmurs, nodding, affirming himself. “Back at the club, they called you Dark.” 

He opens his mouth to retaliate. Jack shakes his head. “And I know why they call you that. You told me. But I...I want to...call you that, I guess? For a different reason.”

The other's mouth upturns into half of a smile. “And what would that reason be?”

“My brother's nickname was Anti,” Jack says, and he can't keep his gaze trained on him, his anxiety gnawing at his heart. He looks down at the floor. “His real name was Ariel. I don't know if you knew that. But we...joked he was the Anti me. I was everything he could've been, had he made better choices. Anti was a fan of nicknames. He was the one who gave me Jack. So I...your name is Damien. And since I've met you, you've done nothing but just...hide away. Like a ghost. Present, but unseen. Like the darkness.” 

His cheeks warm at the long exposition. “It's stupid, I know, but I--”

“I can see why Anti loved you so much,” Damien— _Dark_ \--says gently. “You have a kind heart. Bright. Full of life. A clover in a dead field.” 

Turning back to the stove, Jack stares at his back, his heart thrumming in his ears. “Dark I shall be then.” 

He tilts his head a bit, looking at him over his shoulder. “Don't go changing it on me, though. You only get one.” 

~~

His life with _Dark_ changes after that. 

It becomes a routine to wake up in the morning, his coffee laid out on the counter, sweetened just the way he likes. It took a couple of tries, Dark not quite understanding the concept of “I like two sugars” but two sugars of _what_ . The first couple of attempts had been way too sweet, but Jack drinking it anyway to be polite, nothing in it at all, because Dark apparently had forgotten that sugar is a concept because he drinks it straight, and the subsequent tries in the middle had been _a little too much_ and _just a bit too little._

He's got it now, though.

So Jack wakes up every morning to freshly made coffee, only a smidgen too hot to drink when he arrives. Dark has a knack for timing it perfectly like he somehow knows when Jack will rise from the dead down to the minute. 

But they talk. It's a lot of Dark asking him a single question and Jack rambling on for hours, tiring himself out with the inflections and hand gestures. And the other man—he always watches. Seemingly enraptured by the way he talks, but Jack doesn't believe that for a second.

No one _likes_ listening to him talk. They're just polite. 

He can't say _he_ doesn't like it, though. To be surrounded by another person again. To feel them smile, laugh. With Dark in particular, the way his lips curl at the ends, eyes crinkling in the corners, like a movie actor but utterly human and...perfect. 

Because the man no longer feels like a ghost, Jack can...appreciate him. He has an air to him that radiates a certain energy. Poised and elegant, as though he were a great king, a general. Sometimes, in flashes, he can see why Anti may have gotten along with him. Anti didn't like anyone who was weak, who meekly accepted life, bent over backwards for superiors. No, Dark is the picture of strength—a gaze that could kill, a presence that took up a whole room. Anti would have found his match in Dark, certainly. Not in the way that he would lose a fight, because he could never see Anti losing to anyone, but in a way that would've made the two of them a formidable duo.

It's only natural that eventually, Jack would work up the courage to ask him about his late brother. 

One of their quiet mornings is filled with scrambled eggs and toast, Jack sets down his fork and asks.

“How did you meet Anti?”

And he doesn't miss the way that Dark's hand curls slightly, frozen. He definitely doesn't miss the way that Dark shifts his gaze, not looking at him, the subtle bob in his throat. 

It's not a good sign, really.

“I know my brother did some shady stuff,” Jack scoops another chunk of egg into his mouth. “And I can assume well that if you and my brother got along, you probably had a hand in that. I'm not gonna, like, be mad about it. Really.”

Dark says nothing still, choosing instead to take a long drink from his coffee. Comically long, to be fair. Jack sighs. “Did he try and pickpocket you? He did that to a lot of people. For a while there that's honestly how we paid our rent. I'm sorry if he did.”

A loud slurp, uncharacteristically rude of him. “Yes. That's what he did. You know how...he is. I was on my way to work, before I owned the club.”

Jack doesn't believe him for a moment. Over the years, he's been able to pinpoint when people lie. Anti had been notorious for it. 

But he's tired. He shoves the last of the eggs into his mouth, the memory of his brother aching in a way that it really shouldn't anymore. “Sorry about that. I'm gonna go do my classwork now.”

Taking the plate into the kitchen, Jack drops it in the sink, before ducking out and scurrying back upstairs.

He ignores Dark's eyes on him as he does. 

~~

It is perhaps five months into his stay with Dark that he has the first dream of Anti.

His brain had seemingly been able to block out any traces of him, opting for surrealism and total blankness that he doesn't remember in the morning. But whatever force had kept the thoughts at bay weaken too much, slipping through the cracks. 

Jack knows he's dreaming—the walls don't quite look the same, slightly curled at the edges, almost like a painting. He's far too cold, the air wrapping around him as though a hand is choking him, squeezing, refusing to let him go. He stands at a street corner he swears he's never seen, only imagined, the dirt and garbage trickling out in the little light.

He sees Anti across the way. Those same dirty, black jeans he always wore, holes abound. He never bothered to fix them. Thought it made him look cool. It kind of did, now that Jack thinks about it. Made him look tough.

Maybe that's what got him killed. 

But god, it's so good to see him again. His memory has constructed him perfectly. The same slump to his shoulders, the same tousled hair. He's holding something in his hands, close to his chest, maybe a wallet or a drive of some kind. Whatever it was, the police hadn't recovered it. 

“Anti!” he calls out, his voice so fucking soft, so fucking quiet. How can that be, when he's yelling with everything he has in him? “Anti, it's me! Anti!” 

The scene appears to move in slow motion, Anti's head tilting to glance at him, briefly. He doesn't seem to make eye contact, though, and the distinct sound of screeching tires resonates in the distance. 

Sirens in the distance. Jack takes a step forward to cross the median. “Anti! Anti, you have to go! They're going to kill you!” 

And he knows how this story ends. He lives it every fucking day. But for a moment he wants to pretend, to believe so badly that this is _just_ a nightmare, that he'll wake up and Anti will be shaking him, asking him what the hell he ate to make him squirm so much. 

Five shots go off. Jack's not fast enough to reach him as his brother's body sinks to the ground, a deep red staining the concrete beneath him. 

Some sort of strangled sound leaves his throat, bitter and choked. When he'd first been told how Anti had been killed, it had hurt, a lot. But seeing it like this, running to him, his alabaster skin paling, as though it could get any more so. Jack stumbles to his knees, touching his brother's chest, the blood sticky and wet. 

Real. So fucking real. 

“Anti!” and his voice is back at a roar, deafening him. He places his hands over the holes, as though that will fix anything. “Anti, please! Please! You can't leave me! You can't leave me alone!”

More blood gushes out. Jack _sobs_ , feeling the heat rise in his throat, coming out ugly and bitter. He bears down on his chest, applying pressure, like he learned in school, out of desperation. 

“Please, please, please,” he begs, and he sees the life fading from Anti's green eyes, so quickly, so effortlessly. “Anti, Anti, no...”

Tears roll down his cheeks. He closes his eyes, and suddenly, a hand wraps around his wrist.

He snaps them open. Anti's looking back at him.

“This is _all_ your fault,” he sneers, squeezing him tight. “You did this! You! You could've stopped it! But you just _watched!_ ” 

Jack tries to jerk away, but Anti's grip remains firmly on him, iron clamping around his wrist. “Say goodbye, Jack.” 

Anti smiles, cold and sharp as a single gunshot rings out behind him. 

He's waking up by the time it connects with the back of his head, eyes snapping open.

“Anti!” he screams, gripping his sheets tight. He gulps in a deep breath, smoothing his hands over his face. His body trembles with fear, heart racing. “Fuck. Fuck. Anti.” 

“What are you yapping about now?”

Jack freezes. He feels a chill run down his spine as he glances around the room. Familiar olive walls, stained and peeling at the trim. Small. Comfortable. Home.

Home.

He flicks his gaze to the door, and in the flesh stands his brother, in that same ratty fucking hoodie like Jack didn't just watch him get shot five times. Anti stares at him, narrowing his gaze a bit, before approaching the bed. He sits on the edge of it, so reminiscent of how he always used to.

“You good?” Anti tilts his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. It's too long, much longer than he likes it, but he hasn't had the gumption—or funds—to go get it cut. “Wailing like a banshee in here. Thought you were being murdered.”

“And your first thought was to ask me what I was yelling about?” Jack fires back, so effortlessly, so easy, like nothing's changed. He feels the tears welling up in his eyes. He reaches out his hand, and Anti, with no prompting, takes it. “I...I'm fine.”

“What did you dream about?” his voice gets just a fraction softer, green eyes regarding him gently. He squeezes his hand. “Must've been something.”

Jack laughs, strained. Has this all been one big nightmare, as he would've hoped? No, of course not. But Anti's hand is so warm, and that can't...that can't be fake, can it? “I've been having the most terrible dream, Anti. Like you wouldn't believe. I dreamed that you were dead. I've had to live with Damien Doom, who doesn't...who isn't you, Anti. It's been awful.” 

Anti says nothing. Jack covers his hand with his other. “I'm just...I'm so happy it was a dream. Anti, I don't know what to do without you. I don't know how to be myself without you.”

“I'm afraid it absolutely wasn't a dream, kid,” Anti smiles, green eyes shining in the darkness. “Some things you can't change.” 

Blood begins to spill out of his mouth, his chest oozing, and he counts them—one, two, three...four, five. Anti smiles at him with bloody teeth, another rush of red dribbling down his face, his neck, seeping into the sheets. 

The room smells of gasoline, flames igniting in the room. Jack moves to wrench his hands away from him, but Anti's grip remains steadfast, gripping him tight. He yanks Jack forward and he swears he tastes the blood gushing from him.

A haunting, chilling laugh has him screaming as smoke fills his lungs. 

~~

“...Jack?”

He feels like a hand wraps around his throat, choking him, as he slowly blinks open his eyes. For a moment, he fears it's another dream, his brain in a loop of feedback, a longing for something he no longer has. Jack's dimly aware of his curled up form, knees huddled into his chest, hands so tightly clenched he can't feel them. 

Pillow tucked to the side, Jack trails his eyes up to the doorway. 

Dark stands looking at him, forehead creased, lips pursed into a thin line. He doesn't look quite right, less proper and clean, glistening in a weird sort of way. Like he's wet. He's not even wearing the normal, formal stuff he's always seen him in. 

“Yeah?” he finally croaks out, and his voice—god, it sounds so terrible—like the words are crawling desperately out. 

“Are you crying?” 

With no feeling in his fingers, Jack reaches up to touch his face. A sticky sensation greets his fingers, salt on his tongue, and he lets out a low sigh, feeling the shudder through his skin. 

“Just a bad dream,” Jack admits, taking the pains to uncurl himself, sitting up in bed. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the rest of the residual tears. “Just...a bad dream.”

Dark says nothing for a moment, as though letting the silence hang there. God, he doesn't want silence anymore. It suffocates him. “What time is it?”

“A quarter past five,” Dark tells him, still hovering in the doorway like he's been warded out. “I just returned home. I was getting ready for bed after a shower, but...I heard you cry out.” 

He sniffles. Jack rubs at his nose. “Don't worry 'bout it.” 

“Anti?” Dark asks, and he sighs, shoulders slumping with a nod. “I...am sorry, Jack.” 

“Not your fault,” Jack murmurs, and his companion looks away, then, sucking in a soft breath. He ignores it. “You can go on to bed. I'm gonna...try to go back to sleep.”

He slips back underneath the covers, situating the pillow back into its proper place. Jack turns his back to Dark, feeling the man's intense gaze on him, but he can't be bothered. A fatigue washes over him, physically and mentally, and he hopes that this round of dreams will just be blackness. 

“I remember once, Anti, he...” Dark's voice wraps around him as he closes his eyes. “We did not...always get along. But he...the only times I ever saw him happy was when he spoke of you. I thought his face would split open he smiled so wide the day he found a stuffed turtle at a thrift store—a good one, one he could afford. He told me later that the only thing that kept him alive was the way you laughed; he repeated the sound in his mind over, and over...whenever he wanted to just. Give up. He loved you...so much.”

Jack doesn't breathe then, holding his breath, as the words hang in the air. After a few seconds, the door slowly shuts behind him. 

Fresh tears roll down his cheeks, silent this time, until he drifts off. 

~~

“You're doing what in a week?”

Jack can't even manage to process words properly, having spent the last few evenings staying up 'til Fuck O' Clock, always just before Dark rolled back into the house at Fuck That O' Clock. 

“My attendance is required at a charity event,” Dark tells him, slower, which he appreciates. Normally it would irritate him, but for his slow moving brain with only half a cup of coffee in him, it's nice. “So I'll be appearing there. My manager will be handling all of my affairs at the club. I don't technically need to be there most nights, I just like to be.”

“You didn't strike me as the charity type,” Jack says, taking another long sip of his sweet, sweet coffee. Weird to say, given that Dark took him in on charity alone, but he just didn't seem the type to be all _help orphan children_ and the like. 

Dark makes a noncommittal hum. “I'm not.”

“Then why're you going?”

“My sister runs the organization,” and there's a barely concealed smile of amusement at Jack's little choke. “She's the founder and sponsor for a few of the local charities, and a chairwoman at some of the others. She's particularly fond of raising money for music and arts teaching to the less fortunate.”

Jack sits back in his chair. “Wow. That's...great.” 

“A remarkable woman,” Dark replies airily. “If only she weren't so dreadfully annoying.”

At this, he can't help a smile. “Why do you say that?”

“Celine has been hounding me for a date since the beginning of time,” Dark scoops up his plate and takes it into the kitchen. His voice follows behind him. “Even more so after her marriage to William Barnum four years ago. Normally, for these events, I would ask my childhood sweetheart, Amy, to accompany me.”

“...But?”

“But she just so happens to be dating my childhood friend Mark, who finally got his head out of his ass and asked her,” Dark murmurs. “So that's a no.”

“Yikes,” Jack says, pushing his plate away from him. “So...what're you gonna do?”

The sound of water hitting ceramic comes as an answer for a bit. Then, “Show up alone. Listen to her rave and try to set me up with one of the numerous beneficiaries. I'm used to it.”

He opens his mouth to say, _that sucks_ , or perhaps _good luck_ , or anything else that's remotely normal for a human being to say when someone expresses discomfort with a situation they're currently about to be put through. But Jack has never been normal, has he?

“I'll go with you,” is what he really says, and immediately wants to put the fork directly through his esophagus, hopefully to elicit a choking response so it'll explain why the fuck he said that.

In a snap, the water abruptly cuts off. Jack is seriously eyeing that fork, tilting his head down as Dark's voice returns, softer, almost...amused? “What was that?”

Jack makes a rather loud display of coughing. “Huh?”

“What you just said,” Dark presses, and Jack eases his head down farther as his presence refills the room. He doesn't have to look to know he's standing in the doorway. “What was it?”

“I think I just coughed,” Jack insists, jiggling his leg underneath the table with a vigor that only a hummingbird could rival. 

And fuck, he can _feel_ that smile, almost smug, but not quite. It's so weird how their relationship has developed into this. Months ago, he couldn't have imagined being this...casual with him, but now it just feels okay. 

Still doesn't make it any less fucking awkward.

“Very well,” Dark says finally, and shortly thereafter, the water resumes. “Please bring your plate in once you're done.”

Jack wants about fifteen more minutes of self-loathing and self-pity, but that's not on the agenda today. 

Once he manages the gusto to get up, he carries his plate into the kitchen, stalling for a brief moment to stare at Dark's strong, looming figure before delivering the plate to the sink. They've got a dishwasher like normal people, but since they use the dishes so little, can't be bothered to waste the electricity on it. 

Dark takes it wordlessly, and that air settles between them again. They fluctuate so often. Sometimes Dark feels like an old friend, sometimes like a stranger. Sometimes a fine mixture between both that boils in the base of his spine. 

Weird. 

He steps back into his casual role of the dish dryer, making little circles with the plates and cups as he puts them back into their respective places. Normally, silences bother him. Silences used to always mean Anti was upset. But now that Anti isn't here, and Dark's a different person, silences can be good. 

It's okay to enjoy it, sometimes. 

“For the record,” Dark says, shattering that beautiful moment with that voice of his, “if you would like to come, I wouldn't mind.”

And he opens his mouth. And closes it. And opens it again.

 _No, I have no reason to go_ , is what he needs to say.

“I haven't been out in a while,” is what he ends up saying, “Sure?”

~~

 _Sure_ , he said.

 _It'll be fine_ , he said.

 _I'm a fucking moron_ , he thinks. 

Wouldn't be the first time he reaches this realization. 

Jack fiddles with his collar, pristine and pressed and just...perfect. Dark had informed him after he'd agreed that it was a very formal event, black-tie and everything, and Jack, having owned nothing of the sort except for Anti's ratty ass tie that he used that One Time For a Job Interview, was in severe need of a shopping trip. Which meant more money spent on him, which meant more guilt, which lead to more compulsive food-making so that Dark would have dinner when he got home.

But it's fine. He can handle this. 

Probably. 

“The most formal thing I've ever been to was my high school prom,” Jack tells him, as Dark parks the car. “And that was...boring. Food was good, though.”

Dark lets out a little hum in reply. He offers no conversation, though. Jack's kind of used to it. 

Stepping out of the car, the door slams behind him, and he can hear the warm chatter and light music in the distance. Dark straightens out his tie, and once Jack walks up to him, he reaches over and does the same to him. 

“Should I...” Jack trails off, so glad it's night, shaking his head. Despite that fact, Dark tilts his head at him, brow raised. “Where do you want me?”

He, at least, takes a few moments to appear thoughtful. But it quickly passes as Dark holds out an arm, a picture out of a 90s rom-com and Jack's the leading lady. 

“Tonight is already gonna be so goddamn weird,” Jack murmurs aloud, taking his arm with as much gentleness as he can manage. “This might as well happen.”

“That's the spirit,” Dark quips. He begins walking at a sure, confident pace up the stairs. “A word about my sister. Don't feel obligated to answer any of her questions. Should you get uncomfortable tonight, I'll take you home immediately.”

“Yeah?” Jack says, the droll of voices getting louder. “Thought you had to be here.”

There's a soft touch at his fingers. “Your well-being is still my first priority, Jack.” 

It's more comforting than it should be. 

~~

“Damien, darling, there you are. I was afraid you'd be a no show again.” 

They've been at the function for less than twenty minutes, but Jack's nerves are already alight with something peculiar and...strange. So many faces he doesn't recognize, so many people greeting Dark with a jovial tone, gaze flickering to Jack for a moment before flicking back. 

He's suddenly overwhelmed with the anxiety that this place is not for him. He shouldn't be here. 

But Dark...Dark look so much like his sister. Same dark hair, same pale complexion, same piercing eyes. Celine has the same frightening energy to her, regal in her appearance, heels that could absolutely kill him if she wanted to. The last time he'd seen makeup that pretty was in his freshman year of college, right before he had to drop out, and it had been that girl his friend Felix had been so head over heels for. 

“Again?” Dark tilts his head at her. “When have I ever skipped out on one of your events? I believe I've been at every single one.”

“There was the time with Officer Huxler,” Celine smiles in that same way, her mouth twisting upward. “With Abe. With Mr. Rothworth.” 

“People I dislike for very clear and evident reasons,” Dark drawls out. “Nevertheless, here I am. Appreciate me.”

She rolls her eyes. Jack's enjoying the easy banter between the two of them when her gaze finally trains on him. Something hot and immediate squeezes his chest. 

“And who is this?” Celine steps forward, as though to get a better look at him. “He looks familiar.” 

“You're thinking of Ariel,” the use of his brother's given name makes his stomach churn. He amends, after a moment, “Anti. This is his younger brother, Jack. He's currently living with me.” 

Something glimmers in her eye. “Is he, now?” 

“I assure you that this visit is strictly platonic,” Dark says coldly. Jack's surprised by the sudden hostility. “He graciously offered to come with me after I told him you would not stop pestering me unless I brought someone."

“Cry about it some more,” Celine simpers with that same, condescending smile. She turns her attention back to Jack, studying him for a moment, her gaze following him up and down. “Thank you for coming. I know my brother can be quite a handful, but he's lucky to have an adorable little thing like you hanging off of him.”

“Celine,” Dark's voice lowers, and something is spoken between them in a language he can't understand, reminding him so much of how he and Anti did the same thing. “Enough.”

She waves him off idly. “I'm going to find my husband, now. If you see Wil before I find him, do say hello. He's missed you terribly, Dames. You really should call more often.” 

With a graceful little bow, she removes herself from their presence, balancing perfectly on those too-high heels, as she goes to greet the other visitors. 

“Pest,” Dark murmurs under his breath. “I do apologize for her. She isn't the most...tender of individuals. Pay no mind to her. She's harmless, for the most part. Are you alright?”

Jack gives him a wordless nod, removing his fingers from his arm. He swallows the strange feeling in his throat. “So, who's Wil?'

“An old friend,” he replies, straightening himself out now that Jack has let go. “Mark, himself, and I used to be very good friends as children. We grew up together. Mark went on to go to film school, Wil went on to join the military. When he returned, him and Celine seemed to rekindle some affection they'd always harbored. Now, here we are.”

“That's sweet,” Jack says. “...Now what?”

“Now we do my least favorite activity,” his companion offers him an absolutely chaotic smile. “Interact with other people.”

“How gross,” he replies, and he honestly finds the faint, almost silent laugh Dark lets out is one of the best sounds he's ever heard.

~~

It's certainly not the worst night he's ever had. 

A lot of people don't know who he is. A lot of people assume he and Dark are dating. A lot of people ask him if he's Anti, in which he has to tell them no. 

But it's not the worst. There's alcohol. Alcohol makes most things fun. 

He's about three-fourths of the way through his second mixed drink with no sign of Dark anywhere when a slightly taller man sidles up to him. Not in a creepy way, surprisingly, but just...friendly. Casual.

Still, Jack tilts back a bit more of the alcohol. He sighs. “I'm not Anti.”

“Funny, that,” the man says. “You look so much like him. What a rapscallion he was, wouldn't you agree?” 

That's one way of putting it. “Yeah. I'm sorry, have we met yet?” 

“My god, where are my manners,” the man offers out a hand to him, smiling behind a rather prominent mustache. “Colonel William Barnum, my good friend. Who are you, if not Ariel?”

“My name's Jack,” he replies, shaking his hand. The man nearly breaks his arm with how hard he shakes. “Ariel's brother. Uh. I'm here with Dar—Damien.” 

William smiles, something fond and happy in those eyes. Jack takes another big swallow. Halfway through, now. “Lovely chap, that one. Oh, it's so good to see him again. He's been so absent after everything that happened.”

“Everything?” Jack asks. 

“Dames recently got caught up in some nasty business,” William mumbles. “Some nasty deals, here and there. Being a business owner in this economy _is_ tough business. He was at risk of being shut down for a while, there. Bad debts. You know all the drivel, don't you? Of course you do, smart lad you are. But yes, none of it was his fault or anything. Dames, trusting as he is, fell in with the wrong people. Came clean, though, and now his club's doing better than it ever has.” 

There's a tightness in his chest that shouldn't be there. “About how long ago was this?” 

“Oh, some years back,” William continues. “When Dames was in his late twenties, I think. Was desperate to make things work. I think all of us have felt that desperation. But now he's got you, so I think he'll be more careful from now on.”

“Me?” 

“Of course,” the man offers him another wide smile. “It's been quite a while since Dames brought someone for us to meet. Don't tell him I said this, but I think that he's probably a little hurt about Celine and I. It's an awful lot to take in when two people you've known all of your life get together without you knowing. So it's just so nice to see that he finally found someone.”

Jack downs the rest of his cocktail in one go. “Fuck. Um. No. We're not—Damien and I aren't together.”

William stares at him blankly through his glasses. “But of course you are.”

“No, no, we're,” Jack waves his hands. He needs another shot. A couple of them. “I offered to come with him, 'cause we're, y'know, living together. But that's, like, it.” 

“Do you want it to be more?” he asks bluntly, and it takes all of his willpower to not accidentally drop the fucking glass. “With Dames, I mean. He certainly wants more from you.”

“That's cute,” Jack remarks. “Look, no, he and I, we're like...him and Anti used to be friends. He's just taking care of me 'til I finish college. That's all.”

The colonel hums softly. “He looks at you in a way, you know? That certain way. Guilt and desire wrapped into one. I've often found that...they go hand in hand.” 

William glances off. Jack follows that gaze, finding Celine. He says nothing for a long moment, before turning back to him. “Just think on it, yeah? It's not a crime to want in life, you know.”

He offers out a hand again, and Jack takes it. The shake is less intense than last time. “Right. I'll be on my way, then. Got to find the wife and all. Pleasure chatting with you, Jack. Hopefully we'll see each other again.”

And then he's gone. 

~~

Perhaps one of his strangest interactions with Dark is not the black-tie event, but rather the subtle, warm glow of the house as he stumbles back in one night. 

The semester has drawn to a close, Jack scraping by with half-assed exam grades but relatively strong classwork grades, and in the end it's a successful semester. He's made fast friends with Ethan over that time, having occasional outings with him and his friends, and it's sobering to have time for such a thing, these days. For a while there, it had been nothing but grief and even when Anti was still alive, he hadn't had the time to make friends, hellbent on a degree so he could get the two of them out of their pitiful situation. 

So the rare nights that he gets to spend time with friends is welcome—and upon returning late to the house, Dark's car is parked in the driveway. Jack finds this peculiar for a lot of reasons, but at the top lies the fact that it's barely past one in the morning, and Dark is almost always out until five or later. 

He approaches the house with uncertainty, his paranoia seeping in as he examines the front steps for any sign of his things. He slips the key into the lock, listening to it click, before he opens the door. It creaks in a way that shouldn't be ominous anymore. 

Shutting the door behind him, Jack kicks off his shoes and quietly approaches the stairs, creeping up them with ease. The door to Dark's room is closed, as usual, but his own room door is slightly ajar. 

When he rounds the corner properly, he sees a mess of screws and glass on his bed, and Dark carefully removing the bulb from the ceiling lamp. 

“Uh,” he says, with about as much grace a tired, college student can manage. “What are you doing?”

Dark hums quietly, offering no explanation for a moment as he steps down from the step stool, setting the old light bulb down on the bed. Next to it, he grabs a more rounded one, stepping back up and screwing it in. 

“How many ghosts does it take to change a light bulb?” Dark asks, his voice low, laced with amusement. Still dry, clipped. But the gaff is there, undeniably. His eyes tilt to Jack, waiting for an answer. 

Something about the absurdity of the question just...warms his chest. Jack shrugs. “How many?”

“Bold of you to assume ghosts can do anything,” Dark replies. He clicks the light on, and a soft, yellow glow fills the room. He had mentally braced for the blinding, white light, but having this warmth it...it's nice. “Except be annoying, that is.”

Jack can't stifle a laugh. He steps back down, retrieving a handful of the screws, and the glass cover. “I was thinking about what you had said. About the lights. And while I cannot do much about these city lights surrounding us, I...”

Dark stalls, for a moment. Through heady lidded eyes, Jack sees something. Something clouded, murky, unclear. Something he won't share, that he can't share. A weight that he doesn't know about. 

“I, perhaps...” he finishes, softer and softer still, “can make do with this.”

He fastens the glass back over the light, the room cast in what is almost reminds him of sunlight, of fire. A quiet concert of imagined crackles and hushed whispers. Fireflies. Summer. 

Summers with Anti were always the best. He's always loved summer. Anti always made the most time for him, then. Would work crazy hours to get a few days off to take him to places. Sometimes dinner. Sometimes to the arcade. Sometimes, they just went out driving, windows down in the warm night air, music blasting. Like nothing would ever catch up to them.

But it always does. 

“Jack?” 

He blinks the memories out of his eyes. He's much too tired to be thinking of Anti. He's always too tired to think of Anti. 

He can never stop, though.

“Thank you,” Jack mumbles, looking at his hands, shimmering in the new light. “I...I appreciate it a lot.”

Dark says nothing, as per usual, because really, the man never says much unless Jack prompts him. He gathers up the small case of screwdrivers, flitting it between his hands before he gives him a curt nod. He rolls out his shoulders, breathing out a little sigh, before clearing his throat. 

His silence says everything. Jack nods back, and Dark excuses himself from the room, moving around him with elegance, as always. But before he gets down the stairs, Jack's mouth works faster than his brain. “Wait!”

The man stops immediately. He looks over his shoulder, brow raised. Jack licks his lips, his brain meandering its way back to the present. “Um.”

“Yes, Jack?” 

Um. 

“Do you...” and he swears he's never had this much of an issue talking to other people, really, “...maybe wanna watch a movie? Or something?”

He takes so long to even breathe that Jack wants to throw himself out the window. It would solve the gnawing anxiety, anyway. Dark sets a hand on the rail, like he's stabilizing himself, like this question has him breathless instead of Jack.

_Say no._

Say yes?

 _Please make up your mind, brain_ , Jack thinks.

“I would like that very much,” Dark says after _so_ long with those chords, like honey dripping into tea.

Padding the way down the rest of the stairs, Jack tries to ignore the pounding in his chest.

~~

The chill of the season begins to roll out, fading away with hesitant, indecisive fingers. The warmth begins to settle back in, only mildly, mornings cold and evenings pleasant. 

It has been eight months, fifteen hours, forty-five minutes, and eleven seconds since he's lost Anti. Sometimes he still wakes up hoping it's all a bad dream. 

Weirdly enough, things with Dark haven't gotten boring.

Jack can't pinpoint the exact moment that something twists in his gut when he thinks about him. It's a mixture of eagerness to see him and fear of his face cropping up. At some point down the line, he'll stay awake until the sound of Dark's car rolls into its parking spot, the engine cutting off, quiet in retrospect to the rest of the city, but definitive. It's a comfort when he's home. He can't explain how strange it is to wake up, looking forward to seeing him, sometimes pushing himself to rise out of bed earlier, and earlier, so he can beat him to making breakfast. 

Maybe it's because he reminds him of Anti, sometimes. Anti always slept late whenever he could, not bothering to get out of bed until Whenever I Feel Like It o' clock, so Jack always tried to make breakfast for him on those days. 

But he's grown to...cherish the peculiar, soft little moments. Sometimes, Dark's hand pats him on the shoulder, or he'll fix his fucked up collar, fingers brushing his neck, or sometimes they'll sit just a little too close together on the couch, and it... _does_ things to him, things that it shouldn't. Things that make him feel weird and awkward and far too uncomfortable to talk about. 

Doesn't help that William's words still haven't left him.

_He looks at you in that way, you know? That certain way. Guilt and desire wrapped in one._

_It's not a crime to want in life, you know._

What would Anti say?

What would Dark say? 

Jack sees what William means sometimes, when Dark thinks he's not watching. The slow, languid glances, gentle smiles, that soft, puff of air, barely a laugh, but like a reward. Seconds only he's privy to, fragments of a puzzle that he desperately wants to see the whole picture for. 

Shit. What does he have to lose? Dignity? Pride? He lost those some five years back. 

So he plans some grand thing, two weeks into this drastic realization that he likes it when Dark gets a little too close to him. Some dumb, grand, big thing. Because if Anti's taught him anything, it's _if you're gonna do it, do it extra_. He loads up his phone with softer music—softer than his normal, metal stuff anyway—digs up the headphones that he's had on loan from the library for about six weeks, and thank god there's no late fee on university items—and settles in for a quiet night, waiting.

Waiting. Waiting.

He waits a while.

Of course, Dark chooses tonight to be the night he comes home exceptionally late. 

It's well after four in the morning when he comes back into the house, the locks clicking, creaking open quietly. Jack jumps off the couch, eager, and Dark seems startled by this.

“Jack,” he says, his tone nearly reprimanding, “what are you still doing up?”

“Are you tired?” Jack asks in return, trying to get a gauge on his fatigue. “Like, _I'm definitely gonna crash right now_ tired?”

Dark closes his eyes, shaking his head, as though trying to process that information. “I...no, Jack, I am fine. Whatever is the matter with you, please tell me now.”

His phone is heavy in his pocket, headphones wrapped around his neck. He steps forward, grabbing Dark's wrist, before tugging him back towards the door. “Come with me?”

“It's a quarter to five, Jack,” Dark protests, even as Jack opens the door. “Where could you possibly want to go at this hour that can't wait? We'll go in the morning, alright?”

“I don't want it to wait,” Jack insists, because he knows if he waits until morning, he's going to back out of it. “Please, Dark, it won't take long. I promise.”

The other man says nothing, but doesn't seem to resist any longer as Jack tugs him out of the house, down towards the still buzzing city street. The night still has a bit of a chill in it, but not unbearable. He doesn't dare to look back at Dark for fear of losing his nerve. 

Walking out to the dead silent park takes about ten minutes, cars still whirring by them as they take various crosswalks. It really does surprise him a bit that Dark chooses not to speak to him, to even inquire, but he's oddly grateful for it. 

“We're not supposed to come after dark,” he finally says as Jack lets go of him to hop over the little gate. 

“Oh well,” Jack replies, flashing him what he hopes to be a bright grin, tilting his head for him to follow. 

Dark takes in a slow, even breath, before joining him on the other side. Jack takes his wrist again, tugging him across the dewy grass, the thump of his heart growing stronger with every step. He keeps walking until his feet tell him to stop, tucked away by a tree, the playground for the park just visible in the darkness. 

Jack lets go. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, fumbling for the connection cable on the headphones, frustrated with how hard his hands are shaking. They definitely shouldn't be. 

The fact that Dark isn't speaking just...makes it ten times worse, too. Like he absolutely knows what's going on in Jack's brain and is just humoring him, and fuck, fuck that _sucks_. With those same, trembling hands, he selects one of the songs from the playlist he'd made for this night, reaching up to slip the headphones over Dark's ears.

He doesn't move, as Jack presses play.

Soft, dulcet tones rumble inside of the device, and though Jack's not the one wearing them, he mouths the words, familiar with every beat, every syllable, because in those hours that he waited so tirelessly for Dark to come home, he knows it like part of his being, ingrained in every patch of skin he has. 

Not daring to look up at him, Jack slowly puts the phone back in his pocket, careful not to unplug the chord on accident, before holding out his hands, palms up. He hopes against hope that he can play off the tremors as chill. But he won't be able to. Dark is smarter than that.

He squeezes his eyes shut, still mouthing the words as the man's heavy hands touch him, and reflexively, his fingers curl around them. Jack's always had a bit of a grasping reflex—so unwilling to let things go. Anti always used to think it was cute. 

In a breath, he murmurs out, to the tune of the song, “ _There's nothing I can say, tonight. All I really know, it feels right.”_

Static rumbles through his fingertips, the melody lulling him into what feels safe, what feels good. Dark's rough fingers against his feel so...nice. Unmoving. Constant. 

How did he get here, he wonders. How has he arrived at such a place, a park in the middle of the night, near morning, humming a song with a man who knew his older brother years prior. 

With a careful touch, Dark removes his hands from Jack. He looks up to see the other man removing the headphones, easing them back around Jack's neck, touching his shoulders. The night silhouettes him, sharp lines, with a softer touch, and his fingers...he raises his hand up. Perhaps to touch his cheek.

But he deflates. He rests his hands on his shoulders. Strong, sure. Like...

Like Anti would do, when he needed to tell him something serious.

“Dark, I...” his voice is hardly there, more of a rasp, the words swelling in his throat, refusing to come out properly.

“No, no,” Dark's hands squeeze, just a bit. “No, darling, we've...we've been so good. We've done...so well, up until now. No more, yes? Nothing more.” 

His heart swells. “Dark--”

“Shh,” his companion retracts from him, straightening himself out. “No more, Seán. Let's return home.” 

Dark walks away, leaving Jack shaking with the low rumbles vibrating against his neck. 

~~

It doesn't stop there.

He's found that just because Dark says _no more_ does not, in fact, magically make whatever is cooking in his stomach go away. In fact, it makes it a lot worse. Typical.

So they continue the dance for weeks. Despite Dark insisting that there should be “nothing more,” it doesn't make the languid touches and lingering gazes stop—for either of them. It doesn't stop late night movies and hands getting a little too close on the couch. It doesn't stop anything. It just makes it ten times harder when Dark pulls away. 

_This is why people drink_ , Jack thinks to himself, _sexual tension out the ass, and a hope so large I'm choking on it._

But every time Jack gets remotely close to taking it just that next step, toeing over the line Dark drew across from him, he gets shoved back. They'll spend days enjoying each other's company, and doing the tug and pull that they always do, but the minute Jack steps just a touch too close, Dark disappears for _weeks_ , scarcely showing his face to say good morning before he's “sleeping” because “work has been stressful.” Jack would believe that, if not for the fact that the man never sleeps, or if he does it's in the scant hours that he himself gets. 

Dark does it to put distance between them and he...he really hates it. He really does. 

He can't be wrong, can he? He can't be wrong about...this thing between them. Normally, Jack would just take no for an answer, because pawing after someone when they've already said no is creepy and bordering on stalker, but Dark...Dark hadn't said no. Not in the way that a traditional rejection would go.

 _We've been so good_.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

And he tries, he really does. He tries settling for it. He'll still make dinner for two and leave the leftovers in the fridge, often times with notes that commend him for a job well done, or to sleep well and have a good night. He still pushes himself out of bed earlier and earlier to make sure there's breakfast waiting in the morning, that there are laughs to be had despite the weird, gnawing ache seeded deep in his chest. 

In the afternoons, he spends hours designing audio on his laptop, creating songs for Anti, for Dark, songs that neither of them will ever hear. 

One day, though, he decides he can't. Jack decides that if he's going to say no, he wants to know why. Only because Dark keeps...pulling him in, only to push him back.

Surely he deserves an answer for that. 

It's an early night for Dark, rolling in at around two in the morning. Jack's nose deep in his laptop, composing, when he hears the car arrive. He waits a good bit, allowing Dark to lock the door, take off his shoes, settle in, removing the jacket of his suit, popping the first two buttons on his shirt. Dark always likes to sit in silence for about ten minutes when he first gets back.

He lets him have eight minutes before he's padding down the stairs.

And seeing him there, tired, but encased in shadows, he looks...pretty. He doesn't look like an angel or anything like that, nothing out of a movie, but just somehow...enchanting. Jack sees those hard lines in such a different way than he used to, and it bothers him, the need to be closer. 

Dark's gaze flickers up to him as he enters the room. “Jack? Are you alright?”

Heat coils in the pit of his stomach, in a way that it hasn't in a long time. He's had little bouts here and there, some sloppy hand jobs in public bathrooms in night clubs back before he dropped out, but nothing quite like this. There's something electric about the way Dark's eyes watch him, intent on raising or ruining him, and he's still not entirely sure which he would rather have. 

With gusto he's a hundred percent sure he inherited from Anti, Jack straightens his shoulders, walking towards him with uneasy confidence. Dark regards him warily, but has little time to react as Jack cuts him off, settling into his lap with ease. 

On what appears to be reflex, Dark's hands rest on his hips, steadying him, and he gets no words out before Jack presses their lips together.

It's...nice. For a moment. He's warm, and solid, but so...flat. And Dark won't...Dark isn't kissing him back. His entire form is stiff, solid, his hands bunched together at his sides, touching him as little as possible, despite the fact that Jack planted himself in his lap. He makes zero effort to either push Jack away, or to pull him closer, and perhaps the decision to do nothing hurts more. 

“Do you not...” Jack lowers his hands, bunching the fabric of Dark's shirt between his fingers, almost tugging at his collar. "You don't want me." 

A slow, even breath. “No.”

Jack licks his lips. “It's because I'm a kid, right? I'm really not...I'm really not that younger than you, Dark. Christ. I'm twenty-five and just because you're nearly a decade older than me doesn't mean that I'm not legal, and can't make my own decisions.”

A pause, sluggish and doubtful. “It's not that.”

“Then what the fuck is it?” Jack snaps, with much more heat than he anticipates. He's not--he's not mad that Dark doesn't want him. Well, that's a lie. But he doesn't--he's fine with rejection, really. It's just Dark not answering him, Dark always giving him two word answers, Dark always just keeping him in shadows like he's innocent and can't wrap his mind around it. Dark denying it when it's so clear that he wants it to, and he just wants an answer. “Is it because--”

He moves to uproot himself from Dark's lap, since his place there is clearly unwanted, however, his words are cut short when Dark's hands grab him by the hips, anchoring him to the spot. Jack's gaze flickers down to those strong hands, pinning him there, and yeah, he could get out of that grip if he wanted to. But not without a little effort. 

Blunt nails dig into him, the fabric of his jeans creating marks in his skin. Dark says nothing for a long, harrowing moment, his chest rising, falling, with what appears to be some sort of strained effort. Some sort of need for control. Jack feels the heat rise again in his throat. 

His companion swallows. He raises his eyes and Jack sees something in them, something hot and...hungry. He loosens his hold but doesn't remove his hands, his thumb passing over the groove of his hip, daring to push the fabric of his t-shirt up and the pad of his finger rocking back and forth does something to him that it really, really shouldn't.

Jack lets out a low, sobering sigh. Then, almost a question, “You don't want me.”

“My darling,” Dark's voice is low, blistering, in the best way, “if I were to tell you how badly and _where_ I wanted you, your brother would drag me straight to hell.”

Anti. 

He licks his lips, uncurling his fingers from his collar, moving to smooth it down. He feels so...self-conscious underneath that stare, and he hadn't expected to get this far. He'd wanted Dark's attention so bad, but now that he has it, he...he's not entirely sure what to do with it. 

Jack swallows, using his thumbs to peel back his shirt a fraction, grazing it along the protrusion of his collarbone in little circles. His heart thrums in his chest, a discordant melody, as he shifts, sinking down a bit lower and a bit more comfortable in his lap.

There's definitely some interest there. For both of them. 

“We don't have to talk about Anti,” Jack mumbles, and despite the pang in his chest, on his tongue at the mention of his brother's name, he continues, “...we can just. You know?”

Dark emits a sound that sends a shiver down his spine, coiling at the base of his stomach, the tone calculating and much more sultry than he'd expected. Especially considering that he had vehemently denied this about two minutes ago. “No, Jack. I don't know. You'll have to...enlighten me.” 

And those hands—fuck. The gentle sway from side to side stills, replaced by a solid, tight grip. Again, not painful, but would definitely...definitely take some work to get away from. But not impossible.

Jack raises his hands from his collar, daring to smooth some of the strands of dark hair from his face, looping his fingers into it with a loose hold. Dark tilts his head up to meet his eyes, and they're normally so closed, clouded and filled with something to be desired, but right now there's just...a stark hunger. 

“We can just...” he licks his lips, and Dark's eyes seem to trail the movement. “You gonna make me say it?”

“If there is something you want, Jack, I am happy to provide,” Dark says, and the hint of a smirk curls onto his lips. “You simply have to tell me.” 

Bastard. Jack sucks in a breath, attempting to clear his head. Is he really going to do this? He really, really, really hadn't expected to get this far. But, if he's already at this point...

Taking a gamble, probably the ballsiest thing he's ever attempted aside from snowboarding off the roof of the house they used to rent with Anti, he rolls his hips down, the fabric between them doing nothing to stop the little bit of friction it causes.

It works, though. Dark voice erupts into a breathy, heart-stopping sound, and for a moment, Jack thinks he's ruined this completely, but the ever iron grip on his hips say otherwise. 

“I'm just saying you stop thinking of Anti for just a bit,” Jack breathes out, finally, “and maybe think of me instead.”

“You say that as though I ever think of anything but you,” Dark rumbles back, restrained still, like a beast locked in a cage. “Christ, Seán, the things you do to me...” 

Jack moves his hands down, smoothing over his face, along the stubble and hard jawline. He brushes his thumb over the rise of his cheekbones. “Sounds an awful lot like a complaint.”

“It is,” Dark replies, no hesitation whatsoever. He's enamored with the flex of his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw, how taut and tense they are. “We can't. You have to get off now. Back to your room.”

He makes zero effort to let go. Jack raises a brow. “Real firm, there. And I'm not talking about your tone.”

“Jack,” Dark chides, with little heat. “I swore to Anti I'd take care of you--”

“And you can take care of me like this, yeah?” Jack leans close, their noses nearly touching. “Look. Tell me you don't feel it. That there's...nothing here. Tell me that there's nothing, and I'll get off, and never bring it up again. Okay?”

A sharp, controlled breath. “That's not fair.”

“How's it not?” he presses. “Just...couple of words, Dark. Not that hard.” 

There's a long, pregnant pause, and Jack waits for the cold water to hit. He's waiting for the drop of words, he's waiting for Dark to manhandle him off. For a moment, only the sound of his heart in his chest and the careful, uneven breathing fill the air. 

“God forgive me,” Dark's voice is a thrum against his skin, “because I know that Ariel won't.” 

The words are hardly out before Dark's tilting his head up, bridging that small gap between them. His grip on his waist is firm, nails digging in, and Jack hardly has time to process the sensation before Dark's lips are on his, hungry, insistent, and _wanting_. 

It's like the best kind of shock, a spark against him, igniting that low boiling burn in his stomach. His lips are so nice, slightly chapped and bitten, tasting of something very uniquely _Dark,_ laced with the remnants of something bitter, like beer. 

And he bears down on him, cupping his face, noses bumping, sliding their lips together like they're starving, sloppy, without finesse, but Jack has literally never cared more about the propriety of kissing in his life, because if something feels this good, damn the rest, right? 

He can't remember the last time he was like this with someone. Feeling this overwhelming urge, this yearning to just be closer and closer still. He's literally sitting in Dark's lap and he wants to be closer, to wrap himself in whatever infinitesimal feeling this is forever. Dark's hands move from his hip, sliding beneath the thin material of his tee, wandering with the roughness of his callouses, like he's mapping out a destination to follow through with later. 

Their lips hardly leave each other for a moment, stealing the air, stealing every word, swallowing it. Fervent, insistent touches speak enough for them, and the arousal growing in him is only testament to how long it's been since he's wanted anyone. With an unsurprising amount of strength, Dark hooks an arm around his waist, hoisting him up, and Jack lets out a little gasp, wrapping his legs around him as a reflex. 

“You'll be more comfortable in my room,” Dark's lips press right against his ear, the reverberation of his voice sending a shiver down his spine. 

Jack hardly notices the walk, though, too focused on the way the silky strands of Dark's hair fit between his knuckles, wondering what a well placed tug would do. His skin is on fire, ablaze with a sensation so alien to him, pouring out of him like a dam that's burst open. It's like being lighter than air but being dragged below the shore, and about as cataclysmic as being caught in the path of a hurricane. His body and mind scarcely know what to do, only able to process the feeling of this man's lips on his, on his neck, on his collar, like it's his sole life support and he doesn't want to die.

For once, since everything, god, he doesn't want to die. 

Dark lays him back against the sheets, and Jack's got about six seconds to appreciate the weird, blackish red and blue color scheme he's got going on in his room before Dark's leaning back over him. He realizes as a passing thought that this is the first time he's ever been in here, but it doesn't linger, as one of Dark's hands brace next to his head, while the other grips his hip _hard_ , grounding, comforting. 

Another series of sloppy kisses, and that hand at his hip slides up, gripping the end of his tee. Dark breaks the kiss for a moment, hesitant, like he's asking permission, like Jack isn't hard and so fucking into this, more so than he's ever been into anything. He breathes a _yes_ out, so quiet and so breathy, but Dark gets the message clear anyway. His shirt is gone in a swift movement, getting just a bit stuck over his head, but with a slight tug, it comes off, poofing up his hair in a way that probably suits the disaster he feels.

But Dark's lips curl upward into that soft, amused smile, murmuring something that sounds vaguely like _adorable_ , but he can't quite make it out over the sudden anxiety of being...exposed. It's not the first time he's been half-naked with a guy—hell, it's not the first time he's been _fully_ naked with a guy—but something about this just feels more...important. Every time he's done it before, it's been in the aftermath of nightclubs, of parties, with people he sort of remembers the names of, the vague outline of their faces in his memory. Anti hadn't ever really given a shit about what he got into, so long as he came home, and he was safe. The closest they'd ever gotten to a full conversation about it was Jack coming home to a box of condoms at sixteen. He'd been mortified at the time, and though he wouldn't use them for a year, it was appreciated much later. 

Yet this...this actually feels like it means something. Dark's heavy lidded gaze, kiss swollen lips, a slightly flushed face, and looking at Jack like he's honestly the best fucking thing in the world, but is so scared to fuck it up. It's not long before Dark's shirt follows his own in the corner, tossed somewhere, and Jack lets out a low, impressed sigh at his physique. He's always known Dark was fit as hell, but seeing him like this, the hard definition of his muscles, the strong lines of his broad shoulders, the definition of his chest. It's beautiful in a breathtaking way. 

He's not one hundred percent sure how to handle this unique pressure, this need to amount to what Dark presents to him, so he opts instead for swinging a hand up, breaking that reprieve, cupping the nape of his neck to pull him down again, allowing their tongues to glide together. 

It startles him, when he feels a cool hand slip beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, catching his boxer-briefs on the way, pushing them down just below the jut of his hips. His pale skin contrasts the red, slickness of his cock, free of its confines, twitching in the cool air. Something awful and needy escapes Jack's throat, a mixture of fear and wanting, and he'd really appreciate it if he stopped getting strange, second guessing mixed signals.

“We can stop whenever you want,” the words wrap around him like a security blanket, so confident and sure. Jack lets out a breathy moan as his hand wraps around the head, giving him a slow, languid stroke. “Don't be scared to tell me no.”

And how could he ever tell him no, when he's so gentle like this? How could he ever tell him no, when he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he yearns for this? 

“I'll tell ya no when I mean no,” Jack breathes back, with what little energy still boiling inside of him, “so don't back out on me too fast, okay?”

Dark huffs out a laugh, depositing another hot kiss to his jawline as he curls his wrist, pumping his dick with ease, like he's never been happier doing anything else. He swipes a thumb over the head, spreading the bit of precome over the shaft, the friction still rough, but a perfect slide. Jack watches, mesmerized by how the his head disappears into that tight fist with each pass, and fuck, _fuck_ , it feels so good.

He pants, twirling his fingers into his hair again, desperate to grapple against something, anything, as his hips thrust upward to meet his strokes halfway. Dark gives the head a squeeze, just enough pressure to make Jack _sob_ , choking on his saliva. The furnace within him overflows, engulfing him in a tornado of signals and codes he can't understand. He feels like a faulty computer program, and he doesn't care that he's not working if it feels like this. 

With what remains of his brain function, Jack reaches out, flailing in the little space between them until he pops the button of Dark's pants, followed shortly by the zipper. Dark lets out a hiss as Jack tugs the garments down as though they've done him a grievous wrong. Dark's length pops free, solid and flushed at the tip.

Jack knows he's got the world's worst gag-reflex—he's worn collared shirts a bit too tight around the throat and gagged like a baby—but never has he ever wanted something in his mouth and down his throat so much. He used to think people sucking dick was disgusting, but he kind of understands it now. 

Now...now is not the time for that. With shaky hands, Jack reaches forward, pumping him rough and fast, the shaft foreign and large in his fist. The sudden contact seems to startle Dark, faltering in his movements, but lowers his hips a bit, seemingly eager for the friction that comes along with it. 

“Oh, _god_ ,” Jack keens out, Dark's hand returning to its original pace, twisting just a bit, and he can't help but stutter in his own movements. He removes his hand from Dark's cock, reaching both hands up to pull him down by the neck. The kiss doesn't land quite right, half on the mouth, half on his cheek, but this seems to amuse him nonetheless. 

“Just me,” Dark purrs against his lips, and it takes Jack a lot longer than it should to understand what the hell he's talking about. He can't help but let out a sound, half a laugh, half a moan, giving him a gentle smack upside the head. 

The hand working his cock is relentless, and Jack tries to match his pace, his body already so _exhausted_ from this, from just being able to _have_ this, and with Dark's teeth all over him, lavishing his skin, _marking_ him in a way that he knows tomorrow won't be able to hide it. Something about that burns a hole in his heart—a good one, a comforting one. His breath comes in ragged little gasps, enunciated by soft whines and pleas, for what he doesn't know. His shaft twitches, tight and desperate, and the bits of pressure Dark applies after each pass—it's almost too much. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ “Fuck, fuck--”

Dark pushes him further up the bed, stalling for a moment, the fumble of clothing evident over the sound of his racing heart. The sheets bunch beside his head, and when Dark settles between his legs, yanking the rest of his bottom clothes off and away, he wastes no time in wrapping them around his hips, and the beautiful, harmonious sound of both of them choking is perfect. Their cocks slide together, slick with pre, and he feels like the wind has been kicked out of him when Dark ruts against him. He cups his face and steals whatever moan escapes those lips, swallowing them down, keeping them close to his heart, because he wants to always remember what this feels like. 

Wrapping a hand around both of their erections, he's brutal in his movements. Dark looks straight out of a movie, illuminated by only the barest amount of light in this room, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, hair fucking _trashed_ because of Jack's wandering hands and inability to keep them to himself. His brow furrowed in a determined line, mouth falling open in a mute bliss, and Jack hardly thinks about it as he joins his hand with his own, guiding the intensity of those pumps, and _fuck_ , fuck the _sounds_ it makes, Dark's incoherent cursing, the slick slide of their cocks against one another, the creak of the bed, the harshness of their panting. 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head back, and Dark seems to use this as an excuse to nip at his neck, teeth grazing along the sensitive skin, normally pale, but doused in a cherry red, blooming under the bruises and bites Dark's left behind. 

His orgasm catches him without warning. Jack has about enough brain cells to say _please please please_ , whispered out in a rasp, right before he's gone, jutting his hips up and down, slower and slower, fucking into the little fist they've created. Spurts of white come shoot out, and he feels the sticky splatter hit his burning skin, the sheets, and probably on Dark. He trembles, and has about two seconds to come down from the high before his lover is gone too with a low, primal grunt. The come sprays his chest, hot and heavy, but he can't even be bothered to care about how awful it's going to be to clean this up. 

There's a soft lull, then, in the moments that follow. Dark seems to have a remarkable amount of energy left over, or at least is pretending to, still generously propped above him, but his form wobbles, eyes downcast, breathing. Jack raises a hand, smoothing the sticky hair matted to his skin out of his face, and Dark's eyes flicker up to him, the small curl of his lip indicative of acknowledgment. 

“Wanna wash up?” Jack asks, when he feels like his chest wants to work again, pumping oxygen at a reasonable pace. “I don't think I can sleep covered in come, dude.” 

“I wouldn't expect you to,” Dark's voice is a rumble, different from his usual dulcet tone. More raw, lost, and knowing that he did that... “Yes. That sounds like a good idea.” 

With an exhale, Dark pulls himself up, resting on his knees, offering out a hand to pull him up. His head swims with the sudden movement, and a hand at his shoulder stabilizes him, briefly. Jack smiles, that weird bubble going off again in his stomach. His companion slides off the bed, not letting go of him, tugging him gently in the direction of the bathroom. 

The lights flickering on is honestly the worst part. Getting into the shower—with another person, no less—isn't that bad. The warm spray seems to soothe away some of the fatigue at least, the sweat and come melting away. They don't touch a lot, save for the occasional aid in cleaning, and when they do it isn't sexual, only...gentle. Soft. 

He spends a little longer than he should staring at the planes of Dark's back. Not only is it impressive, as he'd earlier noted, but there's a large, sprawling tattoo down his spine, across the shoulders. The ink spreads out far, sharp and black, the outline of a bones spreading out, a rickety clock in its center. 

It's beautiful. Dark is patient and calm as Jack trails his fingers across it, wondering how long ago he'd gotten it, why, and what it means. But he feels now is not a good time to ask. 

Dark gets out first, and Jack stays under the spray for a few more minutes, relishing in it, before shutting it off. He towel dries off as much as he can, fluffing up his hair, stopping by the mirror to glance at his reflection. It's fogged, but he can see the red and purpling marks along his neck, and he smiles, gliding a finger across them. 

Those will definitely be there in the morning.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist as he leaves, and he pokes a head into Dark's room, where the other man is already discarding the come-stained sheets, sporting only pajama pants, smoothing out a clean, fresh one. On top of the dresser, lays a t-shirt that has something blazed on the front he can't read. 

Jack ducks back into his room for a moment, opening his dresser, dropping the towel and pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. He picks the towel back up, wrapping it around him, making the short journey back to Dark's room, where he seems to be doing something in the bathroom again, now that Jack's not in there. 

Mustering up the courage, Jack walks over to the dresser, picking up the shirt. It's warm and soft to the touch, oddly reminding him of one of Anti's old band t-shirts from way back when. It's clearly been well-loved over the years. Before he gives himself a chance to back out of it, he pulls it on over his head. 

It's slightly too big on his frame, but not overtly, and it's that moment that Dark chooses to exit the room. Jack locks eyes with him, and for a moment, nothing is said, his face expressionless, and Jack's halfway through pulling it off when Dark lets out the quietest little snort. 

“Want it back?” Jack dares to ask in the space between them. 

Dark has the decency to look thoughtful for a moment. “No. It looks better on you.” 

Good. And now... “Should I go back to my room, then?”

A more serious pause, that seems to last forever. “Only...if you want to.” 

Jack shrugs, walking over to plop down on the bed. “Your bed is closer.” 

Dark hums, thoughtful and low in a sense of affirmation. He moves to the other side of the bed, and the two of them settle in, a bit awkward at first, Jack unsure of where he's supposed to be. It's been a while since he shared a bed with anyone, after all.

It would be a lie, to say he isn't surprised when, as he settles down, a careful, cautious hand settles on his hip. There's a request there, silent, testing the waters, and Jack has never been good with ways to answer that sort of thing.

So he settles for snugging against him, the warmth of Dark's chest pressing into his back sublime, and his arm wraps around his waist, securing him there. 

Jack has never felt more at ease as he falls to sleep. 

~~

When he wakes, there's nothing behind him. 

It's barely past ten, and Jack vaguely wonders how Dark manages to function on what rudimentary sleep he seems to get. He stays nestled in Dark's warm sheets for a while longer, breathing in the clean linen and cocooning himself, hesitant to start the day. Last night feels like a dream, but just being here, in Dark's room like this, tells him that it definitely wasn't. 

Besides, the little bruises he'd acquired as victory medals speak for themselves. 

He can't say how long he spends laying there, soaking in the sensation, opening and closing his eyes, expecting to open them once and see his room before him. But every time, with every pass, it's still Dark's unfamiliar room, and somehow that...

That makes him happy and somber at the same time. 

Once he works up the gumption to move a single toe, Jack wrenches himself from the sheets, stretching out the little pops in his shoulders, back, and neck. The spring mornings still possess a chill that's hard to shake off, and he shivers a bit, before padding into the bathroom. 

Finishing up with a quick face wash, teeth brushing, and general maintenance, Jack walks slowly down the stairs, tugging a bit at the soft material of Dark's tee, suddenly sort of anxious now that he's wearing it in the day. Something sweet fills the air as he rounds the corner. 

“Morning?” he leans against the door frame, unable to fight back a yawn. Despite the fun of last night, he still has an amazing amount of fatigue. 

“Morning,” a soft, almost sleepy reply, dealt out in a low, dulcet rumble. “You're up early. I expected to come and wake you.”

He dares to be a bit cheeky. “Little cold by myself.”

Dark offers a small, amused smile. He says nothing in response, however, and Jack's oddly comforted by that quiet. 

Stepping into the kitchen, Jack peers around Dark to see a fresh plate of pancakes on the other side of the counter, along with another currently simmering in the pan. He braces himself against the counter, hoisting himself up, legs dangling off as he tears off a piece.

“They're not ready yet,” Dark snips at him, with no heat at all. It's more...playful, than anything. It's unusual to hear him speak so casually. But he...he likes it a lot.

The piece of pancake is warm and fluffy, the lightest hint of sweetness filling his taste buds. He sighs, enjoying the taste as he swallows it down. 

It's...nice. To have food not cooked by himself for once. It's been a while. 

“It's good,” he says finally, shaking away the strange, lingering feeling gnawing at his bones. “Didn't know you could cook.”

“I admit it has been...” Dark murmurs, “...some time, since I last made food for myself, let alone anyone else.” 

“Lucky me,” Jack smiles, tempted to steal another piece, but decides against it, selfishly wanting the moment to eat them together. 

He swings his legs back and forth, allowing the silence to wash over them. It's not heavy, not like normal silences would be, and he finds it to be sobering—comforting, even. The aroma around the kitchen gives him a feeling of home, one he hasn't felt in a long, long time. Not since moving in. Dark seems to appreciate the quiet, moving about the kitchen. 

A few moments pass before the stove eye shuts off, a clear signal. “Do you feel like eating?”

God, yeah. He's starving. “Yeah, I suppose I could eat.”

Jack looks up to find Dark staring at him, tilting his head, like he's sizing him up. He can't help but smile back, something mischievous bubbling in his throat as he murmurs out, “Just think it's kinda weird, you know?”

“What is?” and god, there's so little space between them, it would be easy, _so_ easy, for Dark to just...

He raises a hand to his throat. “I dunno. I don't normally...have a voice after this kind of thing.” 

The sharp, subtle inhale sends a thrill of excitement through him. Like, his flirting game has always been awkward at best, a sort of hit or miss, but this time seems to be a hit. Either he's getting better, or Dark just has incredibly low standards, which doesn't seem likely. 

At least it's not a shock when Dark sidles into his space, and he spreads his legs a bit to accommodate him. One of his hands slide up his bare thigh, gentle, prodding, before leaning in towards him. 

He's _so_ glad he brushed his teeth before coming down. 

Jack raises a hand, brushing a thumb along his cheekbone, lips quirking up into a small smile. Dark mirrors the gesture, the pressure of his hand slightly cold, grounding. His face betrays little, but his eyes— _goddamn_ his eyes—say so much. Jack's not much of a poet, but he could write stories about the subtle glimmers and flickers of this man in length. 

“Hi,” Jack says, whispered in the limited space between them.

“Hello,” Dark rumbles back, so much more of a vibration against his skin than words.

And then he's kissing him again, just a gentle tilt of his head, their mouths slotting together. It's so instant, Jack cupping his cheek, pulling him in, tasting the bitterness of the cup of coffee he's already downed. He moves closer and Jack wraps his legs around the small of his back, Dark's arm hooking around his waist to press them closer. He feels like a magnet, so drawn to this man, wanting to weave himself tighter and tighter against him, satiating something carnal inside of him. 

“Mm,” Dark murmurs against his lips, hardly stopping before he's kissing him again. “Breakfast, darling.” 

Jack kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, before returning to his lips. “Can't it wait?”

“You're hungry,” amused, soft, and Jack will never get tired of that sound. 

“Not really,” he says, definitely a lie, and Dark knows it well.

God isn't having his lies today. His stomach rumbles, loud and proud in the otherwise quiet kitchen, and Jack couldn't stop the laugh that escapes him if he tried. He buries his face in Dark's shoulder, loving the way his companion tries to hold it together, but he feels the snickering despite it. 

Dark, regrettably, removes himself from Jack's space, and he lets out a soft, easy sigh. Dark picks up the plate by him, walking to the table, and makes quick work of setting everything out. It takes him a bit to calm himself down, wondering exactly when he got so bold in his movements. 

How strange Anti would find him now, he thinks. So adventurous, wanting. Anti had always seen him as reserved and shy. 

But he likes to think that, as he joins Dark at the table, Anti would be proud, too. 

~~

It is perhaps a year into his stay—two months after their first time—when everything turns to shit. 

Summer comes and goes with a whisper—the still lukewarm days of fall rolling through like waves along the beach. His relationship with Dark doesn't change, not much, a still constant, comforting presence at every turn.

He hesitates to call them anything— _boyfriend_ sounds too casual, especially for someone who knew your brother. _Lover_ sounds too scandalous. _Partner_ makes it sound like they're going to do a heist job together. So he just settles for saying _Dark_ , at any opportunity, followed perhaps, if he's feeling bold, his _sweetheart_. 

It's not the last time they are...intimate. No, a far cry from it. Jack could have easily lost himself to the hot, inviting kisses, determined to consume him whole. Strong hands pinning him against every flat and non-flat surface, leaving bruises that Jack doesn't mind having at all, not one bit. His skin becomes a landscape of sheer adoration and worship, nearly. 

How great it feels to be cared for so dearly.

But he should have known better, because good things don't last. 

Late one evening, Jack sits in the living room, tapping away on his laptop on some assignment or another. This is his last semester before graduating, and he's never been more grateful to be done with anything in his life. It's only a bit past eleven, so he doesn't expect Dark home for a good five or six hours at the minimum. He's playing his music loud because of this, and so when the front door opens with reckless abandon, Jack nearly throws his laptop across the room. 

The door slams shut, and there, in front of it, stands Dark, his tie half undone, a tremble in his hands, and a sway to his step. Locks click, and then, sinking against the door, Dark crumples before it. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jack breathes out, tossing his laptop onto the couch. He goes to him, immediately. “Dark, what--”

He breathes in, and the smell of alcohol punches him in the gut. Jack covers his mouth, reflexively. “Did you—did you fucking drive like this? What's wrong with you?”

Dark says nothing, putting his face into his hands. He doesn't make a single sound, the silence hanging over them both, and if he couldn't see the rise and fall of his chest, Jack wouldn't be sure he was alive. 

“Dark,” Jack presses, reaching out to touch him.

His finger barely makes contact with his shoulder before Dark slaps, actually _slaps_ his hand away. “Don't. Get away from me.” 

Cradling his hand as though its been burned, Jack can't overcome the tremors that take hold of him. He's never...he's never talked to Jack like this before. He grits his teeth, forcing his voice to be even, “What. Happened.” 

“Go to your room,” Dark murmurs, his voice a sloppy mess of syllables. He braces a hand against the door frame, as though to hoist himself up, but he isn't steady enough, the alcohol destroying his stability. “Now, Seán.”

Indignation boils in his throat. Shoving it back down, he seethes out, “I'm not a child, _Damien_. You can't send me to my fucking room.”

Dark points a finger at him, a good couple inches away from him. He holds it up for a moment, then repeats the gesture, up and down, up and down, up and down, and then, he lowers it for good. His tongue pokes out from between his lips, wetting them, blood roaring in his ears as he trails this movement. 

“None of this, Seán,” he whispers, broken. He's never heard this before, never heard him crumble like this for anything. “Please, dear heart. Go to your room. Leave a man to his misery.” 

“What happened?” Jack pleads, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. “God, Dark, you can tell me if something's wrong. I want to help, please.”

“There is no helping long dead ghosts,” he mumbles, his form wobbling as he rises to his feet. His hand goes to the door frame again, leaning against it for support. Jack rises to meet him. “I will be fine in the morning. Just...leave me, Jack. I promise you I will be alright. Go to bed. Don't come out, no matter what you hear.”

With great effort, Dark drags himself past him, his steps labored and slow. His companion meanders his way towards the kitchen, the lights flickering on as he hears rustling in the cabinets. 

No.

Jack rushes inside, just in time to see Dark rip the cap off of a bottle of expensive liqueur, downing a huge gulp of it in one go. His hands still shake, but have the neck of the bottle in a strong grip, closing his eyes as he leans against the counter.

“I don't think you need to be drinking anymore,” Jack insists, walking towards him, careful, cautious. Dark says nothing. “Just...come to bed, okay? Go lay down. I'll bring you some water, and you can just...relax.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Dark's tongue sounds too large for his mouth, his speech lolling together. “You don't...you don't get it at all. God, Anti, why? Why did you...?”

_Anti._

His mouth goes dry. “What does Anti have to do with any of this? Dark?”

But Dark isn't listening to him. He takes another swig of the liqueur. The smell of it permeates throughout the room, a most unwelcome guest in a place he now attempts to call home. Jack takes another step towards him, and reaches out his formerly struck hand, in an attempt to soothe. 

It happens fast. Jack feels the whoosh of air, a hair's breath away from his cheek. Behind him, the crack and crash of glass erupts behind him, and Dark emits a sound so fragile and _raw_ , like an animal on its deathbed. 

“God, Ariel!” Dark curses, and if it weren't for the counter behind him, he may very well have fallen. “You _bastard_! You stupid, selfish, inconsiderate bastard!” 

“What did Anti do?” Jack shouts over his roar, grabbing him by the wrists, digging his nails into the soft skin. “Dark, Dark! What did Anti do? Please!” 

Dark shoves him back, not hard enough to send him toppling over, but definitely with force behind it. He stumbles back, feeling himself slip further and further into a frenzy. The rush of his blood does little to soothe him, and he's torn between hiding away until Dark's slept off the booze and pressing further in. 

“Anti's dead,” Jack chokes on the words, small incisions in his throat with each drawl. He says this for the both of them, that grim reminder, hanging between them. “Anti's dead, Dark. He's been for over a year! He was killed in a drive by, shot five times in the chest, and was alone--”

 _“He was not alone!”_ and whatever dam holding back that influx shatters completely, much like the bottle behind him. The intensity of the statement barrels into him, ice shooting through his veins, and no, he must've, he must've heard him wrong as Dark mutters out, a shell of his normal speech, “He was not alone, Seán. I... _I_ was there.” 

_No._

_Nononononononono_

All the reports had said Anti was alone. Anti, stupid fucking Anti, had gone on that heist job on his own. He'd used his criminal background to break into somewhere he shouldn't have been, and as he was making a getaway, got shot. They stole the money he had on him, presumably, as it had been nowhere to be found. 

_No. No._

“No,” Jack says aloud, and his head, god, his head has been dunked underwater, everything sounding unclear and far away. “No. No. Anti was alone. That's why...that's why he died. He would have lived, if someone were with him. That's what everyone told me.”

Dark makes another harrowing, discordant sound. “Anti and I...used to work together. For those shitty, shady, back alley jobs. For all the hacking, for all the embezzlement. It was a...satisfactory living, albeit, a short one. Four years after we started, Anti pulled the plug on it. Said he needed to get himself straight. That his parents had died.”

 _And he took you in,_ is left unspoken. Jack is so dangerously close to collapsing. 

“I finished college,” Dark murmurs, his mouth forming words, but Jack feels he can't understand them. He swallows, and laughs lowly. No mirth is there. “I took out a loan. Opened Crooked Edge. I was under fire for...a time. They couldn't make anything stick, though. I gave Anti jobs here, and there, to keep his head up, knowing that he had not one mouth to feed, but two. I...we were not...what you would call friends. We did not keep in touch, not as we should've. I was a reminder to a lifestyle he couldn't live anymore.” 

His throat tightens, and he feels the sting at the corner of his eyes. “You're lying.”

“He fell off the radar for some time,” Dark's in his own world now, mumbling about stories that have to be, that have to be fake. “Crooked Edge was doing well. I...one day, out of the blue, he contacted with me, again. He asked me, he asked me for one more job. One more good paying job. We'd be set for life. I asked him why, and he said that if he did this...that his little brother would never have to worry again.”

“Shut up,” Jack breathes out, his whole body seizing, unwilling to move, to remove himself from these poisonous _lies_. “Shut up, Dark. Stop it!”

“It wasn't meant to go the way it did,” Dark whispers, shaking his head. “I promise, Jack. It wasn't meant to go that way. Someone set us up. We got what we came for, but they...they shot him. Right in front of me. Five times. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” 

Wetness rolls down his cheeks. 

_No. No._

“I tried to help him,” his mouth isn't even moving anymore. Jack can't see anything in front of him, only that disembodied voice going in one ear, out the other. “He told me to go. To leave him. To take the money that should've been his, and keep it for you. He made me swear to take care of you, because he knew, he knew once he was gone, you would have no one. And he needed you to have _someone_.”

Dark lowers his voice, almost in an imitation, “ _Take care of him. Take care of the only thing in this goddamn world that ever meant anything to me. If I find out you fucked him over, I'll be waiting for you in hell, you hear me, Damien? You make sure he's the happiest goddamn kid in the whole world.”_

Anti. Anti. 

_No. No._

_Antiantiantiantiantiantianti_

The letter, only a week after Anti had died. Someone paying for the funeral. Someone tipping the police off on where he'd been found dead. Where the money went. 

_Nothing more. We've been so good._

Liar. 

Murderer. 

Jack tastes the salt in his mouth, chest heaving in and out. He feels close to vomiting, the trembling in his hands unbearable, spreading to his knees, his entire body. He covers his mouth to hold his bile in, but can't hold back, “And you just—you just _left_ him? You left my fucking _brother_ to _die?”_

“There isn't a day that goes by where I don't regret it,” Dark tries, but no, no, it's just lies, more of them, more lies and more bullshit. “I didn't know any better. I was stupid, I thought I had done the right thing--”

 _“I trusted you!”_ Jack roars, fire burning in his throat, in his stomach, beneath his skin, in every crevice of his bones. “I _let_ you in, I let you hold me, kiss me, touch me! I let you put your fucking hands on my body, took pride in the marks you left behind, and now I--! How could you, Damien? How could you leave my brother to die? When he was everything to me! It was hard enough to think he was alone, but to know that you could've—you could've saved him? That someone was there, and they... _you_ just let him... _god_ , Damien. I trusted you.”

He lets out a sob, collapsing to his knees. He presses the palms of his hands into the cool tile, allowing his body to receive the influx of agony washing over him. There's nothing inside him, now, the bruises feeling like curses littering his skin. 

“Did you even want me?” Jack laughs, fully aware of the snot rolling down his cheeks. “Did you want me, or was it just to ease your guilt? To placate me in hopes that I would never find out?” 

“No, no,” Dark shuffles to his side, his form pleading, almost, desperate.“No, darling, everything...everything between us, that was...that was--”

 _“No,”_ Jack snarls, wiping the snot from his nose, using his dirty palm to rake the tears away from his overflowing eyes. His body is so tired, now, fatigue gripping him, refusing to let go. When he sees Dark reaches for him, he spits out with the last of his strength, “Don't. I don't want to see you anymore. Get out.” 

And true to form, true to himself, Damien Doom rises from his knees, and Jack listens to his shuffling footsteps as he leaves the room. 

~~

Silence surrounds the house in the days to come. 

It's like a movie on mute, except nothing interesting is happening, and Jack feels like he's stuck on pause.

He hasn't left his room much in these last few days. He keeps the door locked at all times, curled into his sheets, and he hasn't been like this since Anti dying, so long ago. His stomach is the only thing that drags him out, and even then, he waits and waits and waits until he can't take it anymore, when the hunger gnaws at every bit of him, and he'll satiate it by sneaking out in the evening when Dark is long gone from the house.

But he's not sure Dark's even really been home these last few days. Normally, he's trained to listen for the sound of his car rolling into the driveway, but there's absolutely nothing, no indicator, no anything. Jack isn't strong enough to check his room for signs of living, the room that _he_ spent so much of his time in after everything. 

Anti. Anti. 

Anti could've been alive. 

He could be surrounded by those ugly green walls, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke burning in every corner of the house, a fridge filled with frozen foods that could easily be heated up, half eaten pizza on the counter. He could be cussing about the WiFi not working in the apartment, waiting for Anti's heavy footfalls, waiting for him to burst his door open with no regards to his privacy, wondering what scandalous thing he's looking up now.

Jack could be home, with him. But instead, he's in a too big house, with memories he no longer wants, with a bitterness clawing at him, latching onto him, refusing to release him. 

Because of Dark. Because Dark was a coward, because Dark left him, left _his_ brother to _die_. 

_Take care of him._

“Goddamn it, Anti,” and Jack can't say how often those words have left his mouth, with so many inflections. Sometimes grief-stricken, sometimes angry, sometimes nothing at all. “We were doing fine. We didn't have much but we had _enough_. I didn't need anything, as long as I had you.” 

And now he has nothing. 

How cruel fate can be.

It's been about a week since he's seen Dark, and he thinks maybe Dark really took that message to heart. 

_I don't want to see you anymore._

He hasn't seen him since. 

In spite of everything, Jack thinks that he hates it more, not hearing or seeing or interacting with anyone. He hates the fact that he hasn't seen so much of a whisper of him since the blow up, and he hates that he wishes— _god_ \--he wishes that Dark hadn't listened to him. 

_I don't want to see you anymore._

Because Dark left his brother to die. Because Dark took away his only family. 

_I don't want to see you anymore._

_Take care of him._

_Takecareofhimtakecareofhimtakecareofhim_

Hasn't he done that? 

From guilt? From obligation? Wanting? 

Jack swears he feels Anti breathing into his ear, cold, harsh, bitter. ' _They say the bad men come if you say their name three times in an empty room. Try it.'_

His voice isn't his own as he murmurs, “Dark. Dark. Dark.” 

Nothing happens, the silence ringing in his ears. He isn't sure what he wanted, which outcome he'd hoped for, as though magic exists, as though his dead brother is speaking to him from beyond the grave. 

He knows it's not really Anti. He knows that this weird, familiar voice isn't his brother. He knows that for all he wishes it to be, for all he _wants it to be,_ it's just himself, because loneliness sucks and Anti, Anti would be the person to talk to, about all of this, if ever there were someone. His mind confiding in the one person he would have trusted, even if he can't face it. 

And Dark...maybe he wants to kill him. Maybe he wants to scream, shout, cry. Maybe he wants to just watch the lines of his face, the glassiness of his eyes, the curl of his lips. Anything, anything but _this_.

“Dark,” his voice, more him, but still not quite there. “Dark. _Dark_.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

The static in his head begins to trail into a distorted mess of Anti's laugh, pressed against the back of his eyes, the base of his skull, to where he could never run from it, even if he wanted to.

' _I never said it would work, kid,'_ and isn't that just the truth? ' _Miracles don't exist for people like us.'_

Jack thinks he hates Dark. Hates him for all of this. But he thinks he hates the loneliness more, this suffocating, nauseating weight upon his chest, pressing into his skin like an unwanted brand. 

_'You know it's not his fault.'_

But he doesn't care that he knows this, that it's both true and not true, doesn't care that this information is there, obvious and for the taking. He doesn't care as he feels the vibrations of his brother's phantom voice against him, murmuring Dark's name over and over again. 

~~

After about a week, Jack's kind of had enough.

It takes a lot of energy to shower and change clothes, clean his face up and pull himself together. The little turtle Anti gave him can finally breathe now that he's stopped clutching it for dear life. 

He's been listening, the last two days. Dark hasn't ever come home. The car's missing from morning until evening, and when Jack musters up the courage to poke his head into the bedroom, there's virtually no indication that anyone has been in there recently. 

It's almost like he never was. Like those first few weeks after he'd moved in. 

And he doesn't—he doesn't want to see Dark. Not really. But he keeps replaying that moment over and over in his mind, feeling the vibrations of it against every pore of his bones. Dark's harrowing guilt. His pleading, his desperation. And truthfully Jack doesn't even care about that, not a bit, because he still feels the coldness of holding his brother's hand that last time, when he'd been brought in to confirm that it was him. 

But Dark running away from this isn't fair. And Jack's not going to stand for it.

If Dark is anywhere, Dark is at the club. Jack knows this with little uncertainty. With some of the cash that he'd squirreled away, he calls a cab and in silence he makes his way to the club.

The neon lights don't hold the same foreboding excitement that they once did. Jack tosses a few bills at the cab driver and heads out towards the building, flipping his ID to the bouncer before ducking himself inside. 

Cigarette, vape, and other kinds of smoke permeate the room, the clinking of glasses and droll of music blending together in a cacophony of odd, but harmonious sounds. Jack hears laughter and fussing and yelling, and all things considered this should be a happy place, but he can't bring himself to smile at the thought of it.

Up at the bar, he catches sight of someone familiar, chatting with the bartender. It looks to be business, but there's an ease in the figure's form, like it isn't a big deal, regardless.

What had Dark called him? Nathan? 

Jack makes a beeline towards him.

Nathan notices him before he gets up on him, but doesn't seem to recognize him at first. His eyes dart to him briefly, still speaking with the bartender, before his eyes widen a bit. He holds up a hand to the bartender, halting their conversation as he says, “Oh. Um. Jack, right?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies with a little nod. “Nathan?”

“That'd be me,” Nathan turns to face him, and for a moment says nothing. He opens his mouth a bit, closes it, and then opens it again, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Look, I...I'm sorry. About last time. I wasn't even thinking. Fucking rude, you know? So...yeah. My bad.” 

And his first reaction is to say, _it's alright_ , because really Nathan hadn't done too much wrong, as he was acting on Dark's orders, but he stops himself. Jack hums thoughtfully. “How sorry?” 

The other man has the decency to look amused, raising a brow. “Can I help you with something?”

Jack peers around him towards the back door. “Dark back here?” 

A beat. “Yeah. He's back there. Has been for a bit, now. I don't know what happened between you two, but...he's been about ten times more unbearable than he used to be, which is...saying a lot.”

Nathan sucks in a deep breath, before sighing, taking note of Jack's continued silence. “I take it you want to see him.”

“If you wouldn't mind,” Jack mumbles back. “Let me talk to him. Uninterrupted, if you could? He and I really...really need to talk.” 

The other holds up his hands in almost a surrendering gesture, inclining his head. “Say no more. I'll make sure no one goes back there 'til you come out, yeah?”

Jack smiles at him, and that, at least, relieves some of the fatigue from him. “Yeah. Thank you, Nathan.”

Nathan extends a hand, gesturing for him to go towards the back. “Anything to get Edgy Allen Poe from writing soliloquies about his own personal torment.”

He can't help but laugh a bit at that, following him to the door in the back, where he'd only months ago, against his will. With no fear in him whatsoever, Nathan knocks once and then turns the doorknob, poking his head in. “Hey, boss.” 

“Get out.”

Clipped, cold...exhausted. There's no life in that voice at all, no traces of even remotely the man he shared a bed with. 

“I am, I am,” Nathan soothes, as though speaking to a child. “Soon as I let your guest in.”

“I don't have an appointment with _anyone_ \--” and whatever he's going to say gets cut off as Nathan opens the door fully, and Jack slips inside. 

Dark stares back at him, expressionless, and tasting the tension in the room, Nathan whistles. “I'll leave you to it. You know, just. Give me a call if something comes up.”

With a flick of his hand, he closes the door. 

Jack crosses his arms, but makes no move otherwise. He takes a good look at Dark's face— _really_ looks. And his heart aches, just a bit...he doesn't like what he sees. Hollowed eyes and dark circles, a paleness incomprehensible, his hair so out of place, looking so decidedly misshapen in the world. Like he's half dead, or fully, and Jack can't tell which would be a more miserable experience. 

But the man makes no effort to speak for a long time, staring down at whatever rumpled papers he'd been working on as though it were the most interesting thing he'd ever laid eyes on. There's such an energy to him, or perhaps a lack thereof, so unwilling to acknowledge him. So unwilling to face him, even now.

Then, so soft, so fearful, “Yes, Seán? What can I do for you?”

“You look like shit.” 

“I imagined that would be agreeable to you,” and there's the barest hint of sarcasm there, and Jack can't believe how goddamn sobering that is to hear. “Did you come here to berate me, or was there something you needed?”

He lets out a slow, uneven sigh. “You haven't been at the house.”

To his surprise, Dark actually scoffs. “Perhaps you forget that you specifically mentioned never wanting to see me again.” 

“It's your house,” Jack argues. “Can't you just kick me out?”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it's... _your_ house,” Jack says again, slower, perhaps wondering if the lack of sleep is getting to him. “You live there. It's in your name. You pay all the bills on it. You paid for all the stuff in there. It's your house.”

God, he looks so fucking exhausted, like he doesn't have the energy to even talk, let alone work. “Seán. That house has not been mine in some time. I own it, but it is not mine. I do not live there anymore than I...” 

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't look like he intends to, either. “I will be fine, Seán. I will not bother you at the house. Should you need something, you...know where to find me.” 

Jack tastes the words, _I need my brother back_ on the tip of his tongue, but staring at his hallowed face, he can't force them out. Perhaps he's too tired to talk as well. “Where are you staying?”

“Someplace nearby,” Dark says airily, picking up his pen. He makes no effort to write with it. “Nothing you need worry yourself over.”

_Good. Suffer. Just as I've been these last few days, realizing that my brother--_

“You're an idiot, you know that?” Jack says, with far less heat than he wants it to. “Like. Really fucking stupid. Christ.”

The hostile words do nothing to faze him. “Thank you, Seán. I appreciate your words of encouragement.”

“Come back to the house,” he murmurs finally, finding that even though he's done little else other than lay in bed, he's still exhausted. “It's stupid of you to be staying somewhere else when you have a perfectly functional fucking house.”

Dark raises his eyes, and there's something so chilling about that gaze, but not for malice within it. It just sends a shiver up his spine, something so alien and foreign locked behind those irises that Jack cannot for the life of him figure out. “Seán--”

“Shut up,” and it leaves his mouth before he catches it, like an explosion. “Don't _fucking_ call me Seán, Dark. I hate it.” 

A long hush falls over the two of them. Dark says nothing for a long moment. “What is that you don't hate, I wonder? What is there left of me that you don't loathe with every fiber of your very being? Must you come in here, flashing that wild, uncontrolled temper, further branding me with the mistakes I have already carved into my own skin? I have _nothing_ left in me, Seán. You cannot take or leave anything else, so it would be best for the both of us if you walked out and did not return here.” 

_You know it's not his fault._

No. It has to be. It has to--

His throat closes, and Jack feels his eyes stinging. His heart tightens in his chest. It's so hard, it's so hard to open his mouth, tar filling him, and he wants, he wants so desperately to say something awful, to keep spitting that poison, the only part of Anti he still has within him. The viciousness, the loathing, the hatred. All of it. But it won't leave him.

“I don't hate you,” is what comes out, nausea washing over him at its sound. 

What he wouldn't give for the earth to swallow him just now. 

“I don't believe you,” Dark replies, not unkind, given his tone. Gentle. Still possessing that same fatigue. “Please do not lie. It's unbecoming of you.”

“I don't _want_ to hate you,” and he feels that wetness roll down his cheeks, and god, why has he cried so much this last year? He's cried more now than he's ever cried in his entire fucking life. He didn't cry this much when Mom and Dad went. “I don't want to hate you, Damien. I don't want to hate you so much.” 

Soft, quiet. “I am truly sorry I cannot give you any reason not to.”

In, and out. Breathe in, breathe out. Slow. Shaky. 

“Come home,” Jack mumbles, lacking any sort of finesse. More of a sloshing of syllables, nothing more. 

Dark lets out a long sigh after several long beats, his blood rumbling in his ears like an oncoming storm, waiting to crash into him with the intensity unlike any of which he's ever seen. No words leave his mouth, and the reverberations of the music outside do not comfort him in the slightest.

Nevertheless, Dark rises to his feet, swiping his rumpled suit jacket from his chair before approaching him, and the door. 

~~

It isn't what he was hoping for.

But he hadn't exactly hoped for anything, so there's that at least.

The ride back with Dark is painful. That much is evident for the both of them. Tension lays between them so thick that he could choke on it, were he not careful, and Jack finds that despite his measured breathing, he's still doing a shit-ass job of it. 

It's a labored thing, walking back up the stairs towards the sprawling house, one too big for one person, regardless of what Dark may think. Jack can't help but feel like this house is cursed; tainted with money rewarded from a job that killed his brother. But that money never saw this house, no. He knows that.

Jack stands in the living room with a swaying step, uncertain, and how strange it is for him to realize that he is less of a person, and more of a ghost, carrying the weight of a burden that's not even his to bear. Upon him rests the suffocating pressure of a guilt he had no part in, save for the very fact that he existed. 

“Goodnight, Seán,” Dark murmurs, his voice sounding so much like that broken glass from days ago. Sharp, but somber.

“You're leaving?” Jack asks, without even looking. The house is so cold—hasn't bothered to turn on the heat or anything, not since everything happened. “Just like that?”

Dark sighs, terse, exhausted still. “Just...like that. It's better this way, Seán.”

“Just like it was better to leave him?”

And Jack—Jack can hear Anti just then, a snort, the way he chided him as he'd done something wrong. _That wasn't nice, kid._

Maybe he wasn't raised to be nice.

“This is why,” Dark says, stronger than Jack expects. “Because nothing I say will make this any better. I can get on my knees, if it pleases you, but for what end? For you to look upon me everyday, knowing the truth? Knowing you could be in your home, with the person you love, but because of _me_ , you cannot? What good would that serve you, my darling? What would be the point in staying in a house where I return to being a ghost yet again?” 

A thousand things. Jack thinks he could say a thousand thoughts for everything he's feeling. Anxious. Lonely. Bitter. Heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Angry. Furious. Empty.

Empty. Empty.

Empty.

Just like the city lights outside. Full of absolutely nothing.

“Finish your degree,” Dark tells him. “Finish your degree, and I'll give you that money. Then you can go, and never see me again. Let me become a stain on your past. You can forget I ever happened.” 

_That's for the best_ , he thinks, and wants to mean it, wants to mean it so bad.

He says this, he really does.

But when Jack's mouth opens, that's not what he says, no. What he says is so soft, so quiet, but still so, so desperate as he murmurs out, “Please, just...just stay. Please don't leave again. I...I can't take it.” 

And in Dark's eyes, he sees such...pain. Something so subtle, so completely _raw_ that Jack nearly trembles with the intensity of it. His shoulders slump, and it's so unusual to see him so...loose. What had once been a proud posture is now so crumpled, bitter. 

“You do not want me here,” he repeats slow, even. How is he so calm? “Remember this.”

“Don't tell me what I want,” Jack says, and meets his gaze, knowing full and well that Dark will see the tears in his eyes. “Don't you _ever_ tell me what I want.”

The smile Dark gives him is almost mocking. But it's more sad than anything, tasting of pity, regret—coarse against his skin. Jack almost wants to drown himself in it, the first real thing he's felt in a while. “What do you want, then, _Jack?”_

Jack.

He steps forward, that sea dividing them growing into little more than an inconvenient puddle. Dark holds his arms out, as though to catch him, as though fearful that his legs will collapse beneath him. But he does not stumble as he murmurs, “I want you to stay.” 

Pressing his face into Dark's jacket, he can't help but be overwhelmed by the feeling of Dark's arms wrapped around him. 

Dark presses a hand to the back of his head, almost gripping him, and for all the fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, staining his clothes, he thinks maybe some of it is Dark, too. 

~~

And life goes on, like that. 

Nothing dramatic changes. Jack doesn't suddenly wake up one morning and realize that he's fine with the way that one person he loves left another he loved to die. He still wakes up to nightmares of Anti and watching the light flicker from his eyes, the way his brother hangs from him like a ghost. He still has waves of anger, bitterness, and resentment all rolling over him in a cataclysm of hatred. 

But what does change, is that Dark is here now. 

Dark comes home, and says little, but uses his presence as a comfort, almost. He leaves Jack tea when he's been crying for too long after waking for a nightmare, and smooths back his hair when he sobs so hard he makes himself vomit. 

Their life has been strange since he returned, and he thinks it always will be. Jack’s pretty sure that there will always be a part of him that can’t let go of Anti, that will always be haunted by him. In some ways, he'll never be able to forgive Dark, but he thinks maybe he can move past it, someday. In some ways, Dark’s the same. He sees it in every hesitation, every falter of his step towards him, and grief, grief isn’t the same for either of them, but it’s the same feeling, the same loss and the same ache, even manifested differently. 

Grief is imperfect. It doesn’t go in a linear path, and it most certainly doesn’t give and take like it should. On some days, it’s all consuming, leaving no traces of anything else but the sticky, acrid feeling deep within his bones. Others, he feels the sensation of other emotions lurking beneath his every cell, a reminder that he is human. That regardless of himself, life will go on, and it will go on whether he’s in for the ride or not.

Love is imperfect. It’s never a solid foundation, and it never really manifests itself as anything that you expected. Often, it’s so much work that Jack feels like he’s going to die from suffocation, finding it better to stay within the confines of his room to let the world pass him by, forgetting him in a sea of nothingness. But some days, Dark smiles at him and he thinks that maybe he can pick up his own broken pieces and make something out of them, if he gives enough of a damn.

Summer has helped. The warm air rolls into the city like dynamite, and Jack finds himself often sitting beside the windows and feeling its warmth, just to charge himself, to prepare himself the next moment, the next breath. Classes are going well, he’s almost through, and soon, he’ll be out and ready to tackle the world as a professional. 

The sound of a car approaches the front door, and Jack knows that by some dumb luck Dark’s home early. With summer, the club is more popular than ever, so it’s been a lot of late nights for him. But Jack won’t ever complain about the company, earlier in the night. 

He feels Dark’s eyes on him as he enters the house, Jack still staring out at the last vestige of the sunset, soaking in the last of its warmth until tomorrow morning. It doesn’t take long, he tracks Dark’s movements--shoes off, jacket off, bag down. And then his gentle steps towards him, a delicate touch on his shoulders, his skin warm, solid, _there._

His life is imperfect, he knows this. Jack, himself, is imperfect. But as he feels the heat of Dark’s body behind him, the ghost of his lips tracing the top of his head like a familiar memory, he thinks it’s okay if it stays that way. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm most active on my [tumblr](https://planetpossum.tumblr.com/), where you can find me reblogging stuff about Markiplier and his shenanigans, or me blogging about how much I love my boyfriend. And also possums. Feel free to come chat with me over there.


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